Dead Sea
by justvisiting80
Summary: Bellamy, picking up the pieces of everyone's shattered world. Especially Clarke's. Set after Season 2, Episode 8. Title inspired by "Dead Sea" by The Lumineers: "Whoa, I'm like the Dead Sea/The nicest words you ever said to me/Honey can't you see/I was born to be, be your Dead Sea". RATED "M" FOR LATER CHAPTERS.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N:** First, of course, I need to thank you for reading. I know the mid-season finale has weighed on many of us, and I hope this piece - which is centered quite heavily on the aftermath of that episode - is seen as appropriately respectful._

_**A/N2:** Please help me extend a huge thank-you and big hugs to **MarinaBlack1** - far and away the world's BEST beta. You should all be jealous. Also go check out her newest Murphy piece, Walking Through Fire! She's kicking a brand-new alternate ship! _

_**A/N3:** For this story I've actually been lucky enough to snag a second reader, too - so please also give mad props to **Persepholily** for her insight. Love you ladies!_

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><p><strong>Night 1 <strong>

Sleep? Who the fuck could sleep right now, with Finn so suddenly dead like that?

Bellamy shifted, sighed, punched the metal frame of his bunk in the half-crushed living quarters he and Murphy – and for a brief time, Finn - had taken over as theirs.

This was all wrong. He and Finn had been at each other's throats since their boots first touched earth. They were so different, Finn's naïveté and his optimism and his need to love everything a constant slap in the face when all Bellamy had, all he would allow himself to think about, was protecting Octavia. Even after those first scared days had passed, the two men could never seem to agree on anything. But they had been brothers in arms, in their own way. Survivors of a hell few others would ever understand.

Now there was just a hole. A completely unexpected, unfair cavity in all their lives, and Bellamy couldn't fight his way out of this, no matter how many troops or guns.

The others were… When had they started to matter so much to him, anyway? Bellamy only knew how to love family. Aurora and Octavia. No room, no time, no safe way to love beyond the walls of their apartment and he had just… made his heart fit that cramped space. Two decades of relentless training _should_ have been enough to help it maintain that specific small shape.

It wasn't.

How long had he lasted? Barely any time at all. Charlotte had started it. Charlotte's tiny determination and his own culpability in Wells' death and then fucking _Clarke_, man, pushing at him so relentlessly like that, reaching in with those small skilled fingers and prying him open instead of letting him shut down the way he wanted to after Charlotte died, the way he would have if he had been smarter and stronger and ended it all there.

But that had been the beginning of Bellamy's downfall. Every damn death after that. Endlessly. They had all mattered too much more than they should have, and he should hate Clarke for starting it all rolling. He should.

"Fuck."

Bellamy ground the palms of his hands into his eyes, so hard he saw bright pinpricks of white and yellow flash against the darkness. Wherever the hell Murphy had gone, Bellamy was glad for the privacy tonight. Tonight they were all processing the world in new ways, and most people seemed to want to do that on their own. For once the Ark survivors were being smart enough to give them their space. Tomorrow would be different, he was sure. Raven would wake up from the sedative Abby had given her. Clarke would…

His chest tightened. Clarke would be Clarke. Clarke would own it, all of it, and do that thing she did where her own pain got shunted off to the side to be dealt with later even though "later" almost never seemed to come around, did it?

Bellamy sat up and tried to breathe more calmly. _Lie._ Bellamy tried to breathe at all. Clarke had to be okay. If anyone had asked he would have said they all needed Clarke to be okay, for their collective survival.

Bellamy needed Clarke to be okay for her _own_ survival.

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><p><strong>Night 2<strong>

Just for once, a good night's sleep, please, _dammit._ Just one night.

If Bellamy tried hard to find the good things about the day – certainly not a ritual of his, but maybe not a bad exercise every now and then – he would admit it had been calm. Quiet, even. Lexa had returned Finn's body as a gesture of goodwill. It had sucked. Raven couldn't look, Clarke couldn't stop. Bellamy had no way to be there for both of them. He had to trust Clarke to hold herself together because they all knew Raven could not, at least not yet.

It was bullshit though, really. Not Lexa's gesture – of course not that, Finn needed to be with his people in death, he deserved that – but all the rest of it. The way they were all just _friends_ now, when a day ago war had been inevitable. Abby and Jaha and Kane, paying lip service to the grief (to be fair, he had caught Abby's eye a couple times and he knew _she_ knew how wrong it all was, but still) while forging ahead in that humanity-crushing way of theirs. For the chance at a better future. Who the fuck cared about the future _now_, if Raven could not find her way through the jagged-edged maze of her own shattered heart? If Clarke had pulled so far into herself she had been unable to manage eye contact with him, as though she were afraid he would look through her and find her somehow lacking?

_That_ loss stung in a completely different way than the loss of Finn. Bellamy felt responsible for it - the damage she was doing to herself. He felt responsible for all of it, really, for letting Finn have a gun when he was unstable and for letting Clarke deal with Lexa alone and for basically fucking telling her, that night at the campfire with Octavia, that she and he were required to make the hard choices. "Had to be done," he had said, giving her carte blanche to kill any of them if the situation required it. Telling her this was her burden, as it was his. What a fucking arrogant asshole he had been.

He was actually thankful for Murphy, currently snoring gently in the corner, for his persistent irreverence and impeccable timing. The one time they'd all been together had been at lunch, and Murphy had made some typical snide comment, the exact words unimportant now, and Clarke had glared at him. Bellamy's whole body ached for that glare. That had been a little tiny piece of the real Clarke, the only thing that kept him going the rest of the day as he watched her from afar, watched her make such a terrifying show of being absolutely fine.

Of all the days to not be with her though. Today, when she needed to know she had somehow managed to do both the right thing and the good thing, so unusual since those were rarely the _same_ thing. But… maybe she did not want that from Bellamy. Maybe it was better this way. He was not the keeper of her morality, he was barely able to serve as keeper of his own. No. He would just have to step back, let her do it her way for now. He could make it smoother though, like with Raven. Like with the way he had kept the prickly blonde guard, Major Byrne, out of Clarke's way all day. Or running point with Abby and the others. He could pick up the little pieces around her, clean up after her, so she was free to focus on what she had to do. So she could get through to the other side and have her time to grieve.

Bellamy the Janitor. It was the first time in his life he didn't hate the idea.

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><p><strong>**Umm by the way... I really, really freak out about posting my stories. Every time, I panic that it is the worst piece of fanfic ever. As you can imagine, this piece - so outside of my comfort zone, structurally - has my stomach in absolute knots. Please let me know your thoughts!**<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N:** Murphy. If you feel the Murphy love here, you have **MarinaBlack1** to thank for holding my feet (or maybe in true Murphy style, my face?) to the fire on his dialogue. I'm still sussing him out - this is my first time really writing him - and of course, she's the Queen of Murphy, so I'm very blessed. _

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><p><strong>Night 3<strong>

Sleeplessness. How shocking. And a second day of dealing with the fallout, unable to be at Clarke's side because he was still too busy triaging the others' grief.

"Murphy, you up?" Might as well see if misery really did love company.

"Well, I am _now_." Murphy's anger was flat, forced; his voice also lacked the rough dryness of sleep. He'd been awake. Bellamy put his hands behind his head and stared up at the faintly less-black blackness of the metal panel above him.

"How is she?" he asked the young man on the floor. Murphy's careful silence hung between them, three beats of nauseatingly oppressive fear for Bellamy.

"… That depends on what kind of answer you're looking for." No need to ask who he'd meant. There was only one "she" in that man's world right now, and it wasn't Octavia.

"What are you talking about?" Bellamy didn't intend to sound pissed off, but exhaustion was strangling his ability to regulate his tone. Murphy sighed.

"She's mostly fine - you know, as fine as any of us could be after doing that. So if you want a good night's sleep, I'll tell you she's Clarke, man, she has her shit together. But if you want to know what's really going on? Well, she secretly wants Raven to confront her. She won't look anyone in the eye. And I doubt she's slept since she did it." Through the darkness separating them, Bellamy silently and completely forgave Murphy every past cock-up. He also sort of hated him for his brutal honesty.

"_Fuck_, John."

"Hey, I was with you on the 'get him the hell out of here' plan. I get it, man." Bellamy heard shifting and when Murphy spoke again, the voice was directed up at the ceiling - as if he, too, were lying on his back. "I can go check on Raven tomorrow. Kind of… take shifts."

Every part of Bellamy wanted to accept the offer.

"She'd kill you. She was all set to trade you for Finn, and that was _before_. It's fine." It was not fine. None of it was fine.

"Hey, whatever. I offered."

"Good night, Murphy." His tone was still too harsh, and that pissed him off because Murphy was his link to Clarke right now, and he needed that link the way he needed water and air. But apologizing was not really a Blake family tradition. So instead, he turned to face the back wall of the bunk, and tried not to hurt.

It didn't work.

He rolled out of bed and headed for the half-broken door. When Murphy asked, he said he was taking a walk, which was good enough for his accidental roommate. Bellamy squeezed through the small opening into the equally dark hallway beyond, fingers trailing along the wall for equilibrium and direction as he moved toward the sensation of a larger open space ahead. As soon as he felt the breeze from outside – cold, so much colder than it had been in weeks – he sank onto the metal grating and leaned against a round bulkhead. Bellamy breathed deeply and let the tears come. In the belly of a fallen space station, surrounded by hundreds of fallen souls, he wept silently for one bright gold falling star.

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><p><strong>Night 4<strong>

Tomorrow the negotiations would begin and their world would change. Tonight he was exhausted. So why the hell was Bellamy still chasing after sleep with so little success? After that situation with Raven and Clarke earlier, he had every right to sleep for a year, at least.

The way Raven had lunged across the camp's yard after spotting Clarke… it had frightened him. He had been so sure of Clarke's death in that moment. Somehow his arms had been wiser and faster than the rest of him, scooping around Raven's waist and gathering her to his chest until the fury ebbed, until she collapsed into him again, all tears and hollowed-out sobs and he almost wished for the fury because at least he was trained for that. Wick had shown up to lead her away; he seemed to have more heart available than Bellamy right now.

And then Clarke's face, finding him, finally catching his eye but only long enough to thank him… and she wasn't even thanking him for saving her. She was thanking him for taking care of her friend. It had crushed him all over again.

Was this their new normal? Waking up every morning from a shitty night of not-quite-sleep, determined to be more than just sad and scared – and failing miserably, usually before midday? He couldn't believe they had been through so much only to end up like this. There had to be more.

The sound of cloth scraping against the metal edge of their doorway caught his and Murphy's attention. Bellamy tensed in anticipation of violence as uncertain feet shuffled forward in the dark.

"Bellamy?" Clarke's whisper was too loud in the space. Too loud. Almost as loud as his heart, beating now to bruise his ribs from inside.

"Murphy?" Bellamy called, voice a low rumble.

"Yeah, I know." There was a gentle rustle and a muffled curse as Murphy slipped outside.

Clarke must have followed the sound of Bellamy's voice. A shadowy figure, more noticeable for the body heat she gave off than as an actual person, approached the narrow bunk.

"- Clarke? What's going on?"

She didn't even bother to answer, really. She just half-grunted, a kind of shut-the-hell-up-and-let-this-be-okay sound, and curled quietly into the space beside him. Bellamy pulled as far away as he could, trying to give her space. She took it.

How could someone so small fill so much bed?

It didn't matter. Bellamy stared up at that panel, the one he'd memorized even in the dark, and felt the warmth radiating off her back.

"Clarke -" But she was already asleep.

Okay. He could handle this. He shifted slightly, trying to find a way to get comfortable in the too-small sliver of hard cold bunk he had inadvertently allotted for himself. He had to move without actually moving, somehow. He would not disturb her. She needed sleep. Besides - it was Clarke. If she knew of his discomfort she would apologize for being the cause. And she would leave immediately, silent and stoic, not willing to burden him.

And that, he could not handle. He sighed and resigned himself to a night of discomfort for her sake.

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><p><strong>**So. Here's my sad little plea for reviews, since I am an absolute neurotic and my brain is full of equally neurotic Muses. We are basically feedback vampires, TBH. If you like it, please let me know!**<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: **A quick reminder that my beta, **MarinaBlack1**, is awesome, and that my second reader, **Persepholily**, is also the cat's meow. Pretty much just a rocking team of amazing, supportive, talented women._

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><p><strong>Night 5<strong>

Bellamy paced the small quarters, a caged tiger in human form. Words failed him. Sleep was… laughable.

Today could have been good, could have been a step toward healing. It had started almost well, even though waking up (_he had slept?_) to discover Clarke already gone had been distressing. But then at breakfast Sinclair had approached him to say Wick would require Raven's assistance today. There was something subtly astute about the gentle man. The unspoken part of his message, the part about keeping her busy so she could process her grief, was expressed in a simple melancholy frown. Bellamy had hated the mutinous twinge of relief that ran up his sternum at Sinclair's orders.

There was no flicker of surprise – not much of anything - in Clarke's eyes when he moved to her table, pulling a chair up beside Murphy and forcing himself to ask normal questions. Logistical questions. Leader questions.

Communication with Lexa was being spearheaded by Kane, but Clarke was too involved now for Lexa to permit her absence at the celebratory feast tonight. They had tried; of course they had all tried. But as Lincoln had pointed out, they were hardly on equal footing these days. There were already some among Lexa's people (_Indra_) who were offended by Clarke's actions, by her display of such weakness. Clarke had to go to the dinner, and she had to make it look _good_.

And then the actual meal. Bellamy had been relegated to the side, Kane's second in the eyes of the Grounders but at least close enough to keep an eye on Clarke. Magnificent, horrifyingly calm, resolute Clarke. Her face kicked him in the gut, the regal beauty of it, the careful equanimity with which she had raised her glass to toast the alliance.

But that was when he knew. Knew how taxing it actually was for her, knew how much she would need him, because Clarke of a week ago would have dropped that cup as soon as the Grounder across from them was poisoned. This Clarke hadn't reacted, she had stared. Bellamy had no choice but to jump in. No choice but to knock the toxic beverage from her hands. It was not his goal to offend. It was just… fuck, it was _Clarke_.

That was the moment he had resolved not to leave her side again.

Then, as inevitably as death, came these midnight hours. The deepest loneliest hours of the night, ripping her from him and tearing him up. He was tempted to go to her. He could justify it: with tensions high among both camps, and accusations tossed both directions, Clarke _should_ probably be under 24-hour surveillance anyway.

She would hate him. She would resent the implication of her helplessness, just as she had shot him that quick glare when he had saved her life tonight. A little huff, an "I'm perfectly capable of handling this, Bellamy" tilt to her mouth.

But _damn_ if he hadn't loved that flash of anger from her, honestly.

So, that was it then. Going to her. It was the right thing. It was the only thing. Bellamy shifted toward the door just as Clarke entered, and there was a brief but extremely awkward moment of dark groping collision where he grabbed her just to keep her upright, and his hand lingered probably more than was absolutely necessary at her shoulder.

"Are you okay?" Bellamy asked, stepping back to give her personal space, guilty for encroaching in the first place.

"I just…"

He understood, and pulled back a few more steps. Clarke moved past him and felt her way to the bunk. A quick, unbelievably violent battle raged in Bellamy's chest as a piece of him suggested he should probably make his bed on the floor.

Fuck that piece of him.

Murphy had found sleep earlier; the only clue to his presence was a gentle steady breathing in the corner. Bellamy didn't have the heart to kick him out two nights in a row. Besides, Clarke didn't need a big commotion right now. This was no less private than most of the sleeping conditions at the drop-ship, anyway. He swung into the bunk.

It was her elbows, he decided. Her elbows and her knees, and the way she curled up but held them at those defensive angles, like a porcupine. Like she could protect some soft defenseless interior through sheer will and grit. That was why the bed didn't fit them both.

So Bellamy stretched out on his side, balancing along the outer edge of the little metal cave, and closed his eyes for all the difference it made in this pitch black room, and focused on the way Clarke made no noise at all on the inhale, and on the way each exhale seemed an attempt to rid the body of so, so much more than stale air.

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><p><strong>**So, yes, it's okay? No, it's rubbish? PLEASE let me know.**<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: **Happy holidays my dears! As always, I must take a quick second to thank my beta **MarinaBlack1**, and my reader **Perspholily** for their insane help with this piece._

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><p><strong>Night 6<strong>

_Raven._ Bellamy sighed heavily. She'd been weighing on him for days, but honestly – he really thought Sinclair and Wick would be able to bring her some stability. They had known her on the Ark, and Bellamy had even gotten a bit of a surrogate-dad vibe off Sinclair. Not that Bellamy expected her to recover overnight – he just never expected her to do something as unthinkable as this, either.

Sabotaging the peace negotiations with poisoned drinks, since obviously there would be toasts… _Had _she really done it? Were the Grounders' accusations valid? Bellamy could feel his body, tight and ready for action the way it always was when the adrenaline kicked in. Too bad there were no opponents to fight. Just his own uncertainty chasing after itself, his own doubt laced through with guilt.

Raven would not have poisoned the drinks; it wasn't her style. Raven's first instinct was to blow shit up – but then again, everyone knew she was an explosives genius. A bomb? They'd suspect her instantly. And Raven was too smart to leave that kind of trail. So it _was_ entirely possible she'd go for poison, to throw people off her scent.

Was she actually capable of it though, of doing something that cold and calculating?

Bellamy scrubbed at his exhausted face. She had lured Murphy to the drop-ship with the intention of turning him over in Finn's place. Hell yes she could be cold and calculating. But again: poison? It meant possibly killing Clarke, and there was no… Or would she? _Would_ she risk killing her friend? _Former_, Bellamy's traitorous brain corrected. Her _former_ friend. The one who had actually wielded the blade that killed Finn. The one who had ripped Finn from her twice: first his heart, and then his life –

"You think _really_ damn loud," Murphy interrupted from the other side of the room. The moon was starting to return, a thin sliver, only enough to gently wash the edges of objects with a weak silvery light creeping in through an overhead porthole. Bellamy could barely make out the younger man's profile.

"You can always leave," he responded.

"Bellamy… She's not coming." Fuck John Murphy and his snide way of cutting people open with a single shitty sentence, thought Bellamy.

"I don't know what you mean," he said aloud. Murphy snorted and turned on his side.

"You're full of it, you know that? You've fooled them all into thinking you're just in it for 'our people', when really all this time it's been about Cla -" There wasn't yet enough moonlight for Murphy to notice Bellamy lunging across the room at him. His head cracked against the wall as Bellamy yanked him from his bed and shoved him into the unforgiving metal.

"It's _always_ about our people, Murphy," he growled. Murphy grunted a wordless affirmative and Bellamy relaxed ever so slightly. "And just because you and I have to share a room, _doesn't_ make us friends. I'm not interested in your opinions." Which was not really what he had intended to say, especially since friends were so damn rare right now.

"Right. Not friends." Murphy shrugged and rubbed at his head and settled back onto his blanket as if this rough exchange between them were perfectly normal. Bellamy wondered what kind of hell Murphy had endured in life, to make him so comfortable with being kicked around like that. Especially since Bellamy himself was feeling pretty damn bad about it. It wasn't who he was trying to be these days.

"Shit, Murphy, I -"

"- Hey. We're all tense. So… forget it." Murphy's easy forgiveness was a brilliant counter-attack, and it worked all too well; Bellamy returned to his bunk, pissed at himself for losing his temper like that.

"We need Clarke, to survive down here," he tried again. Murphy snorted once more but it didn't feel quite as sarcastic as before. It felt almost like agreement.

"They're gonna kill Raven, you know that," Murphy pointed out, changing the subject deftly toward a different and yet equally painful idea, as if he had been reading Bellamy's mind earlier. "Blood must have blood, man."

"No, they won't," a rough alto voice asserted from the doorway, startling them both.

"Clarke, hey," Murphy managed, temporarily thrown by her sudden presence. In the dark, Bellamy bit back a satisfied grin. He tried not to notice how much surer her steps were tonight. Had she memorized the path to his bed? _No._ That was ridiculous. She had the advantage of that faint moonlight, just bright enough to guide her. Of course. He hesitated to make space, suddenly worried that if he moved aside for her, she would take it as presumptuous.

"In case anyone comes looking for _me_, I'll be… out," Murphy quipped as he vacated the room, somehow managing to make even that simple action feel salacious. Bellamy's thoughts turned murderous for a moment, until Clarke fumbled for the edge of the bunk, fingers catching at his side for a moment. That should be nothing. They were used to touching each other. There was always a cut to check, an elbow grabbed here and there to draw attention. Hell, she had _hugged_ him not that long ago. So it was embarrassing to feel his breath catch in his throat; he could only hope she hadn't noticed.

Clearly she had not. "Raven didn't do this," Clarke declared as she stretched out beside him, and even though it was the first real sentence she had spoken since this little… arrangement… started, Bellamy took notice only of her confident tone.

"How can you be so sure?" he asked, as gently as he could.

"She didn't do it, Bellamy." Clarke's words were strung together with such tension they hummed. There was a second statement hanging just beneath them, too; a demand. Whatever battles she and Bellamy might engage in during the day, she needed him to keep them out of this space. This was obviously non-negotiable, and Bellamy frowned but said nothing more, his own form of concession.

"Tomorrow when the Grounders come for her, we'll stop them," she vowed. _Guilt._ It hurt Bellamy to feel such guilt ebbing from her, as though she were permanently wrapped in it. "They don't get any more of our people." Clarke sounded determined in that dangerous, violent-if-necessary way of hers. Bellamy was absolutely certain he had helped grind that edge into her. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. If he had ruined Clarke Griffin, he deserved a fate worse than anything the Grounders could devise.

"They won't take Raven," he promised her.

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><p><em><strong>**Please let me know your thoughts! My Muses are <span>super<span> needy when it comes to feedback. It's ridiculous how needy they are. Bordering on psychopathy, really.****_


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: **The holidays may leave me unable to post for a while, so here's the next installment already! Also, while I know each of these is shorter than a typical chapter, it's because constructing the scenes is such a labor of love. I want to make each one as perfect as I can (although I frequently fail). They actually take almost as long to write as a typical chapter of double the length. If you don't believe me, ask my awesome beta **MarinaBlack1**, and my amazing reader **Persepholily** - both of whom are witnesses to the Muses being such perfectionists (assholes?) about this particular story._

_**A/N2:** I'd love to hear from you! Please take a moment to leave your thoughts at the bottom; anyone who enjoys the craft of writing can tell you, we may write first for ourselves but in reality a little feedback goes a LOOONG way._

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><p><strong>Night 7<strong>

Bellamy caught Clarke's eye from across the small crowd of nervous bodies gathered at the giant post in the center of the Grounder camp. _Finn's post_.

He hated everything about this. Even though her face was calm and relaxed, she _had_ to be in pain, standing here again with yet another life hanging in the balance. The torchlight threw eerie shadows over the Commander's people, animating their tattoos and scars until their skin appeared to dance. Bellamy bounced lightly on his toes as he waited for Lexa to decide if Clarke's proposal was acceptable. He needed to ready himself for the worst.

He glanced at Clarke again, and frowned. She was _too_ far away. If something happened and this all went sideways – which it always did – would he even be able to get to her in time? She nodded at him very slightly, revealing her own concerns about their circumstances; Bellamy immediately slipped from his position at Kane's side, edging close to her. She turned her head to acknowledge his presence at her shoulder, and offered him a comforting smile.

It was so damn infuriating. She did not need to comfort him. She should not even _feel_ like she needed to comfort him. Of all the pointless ways for her to waste her energy… He shook away the thought and focused instead on tracking the nearest warriors, on pinpointing Indra's whereabouts and watching facial expressions to see which of the Grounders might be more loyal to an insurgent than to their Commander. This group was not nearly as cohesive as they had originally been led to believe.

"Clarke of the Sky People," Lexa called as she stepped from her tent, "I have considered your proposal." She stared at her blonde counterpart, eyes calculating. When she spoke next, her voice was softer. "We will try it your way – with some modifications." Bellamy tensed at the words, but it was Kane who spoke.

"Excuse me, Command – " Lexa silenced the Councilor with a furrow of her brow and continued as if there had been no interruption.

"We will conduct a… trial, like the one you have described. But it will take place here, with my oversight. Tomorrow at noon, deliver Raven to us. You may select a small group to accompany her as witnesses. Raven will be judged then, and her punishment based on the results."

Bellamy stepped forward, frustrated and ready for a fight – but Clarke grabbed his forearm without otherwise moving. He knew she was right of course; they needed to focus on getting through this latest hell, not making it worse. He forced himself back, jaw tight, fists clenched around his rifle. Clarke accepted Lexa's terms, then turned to Kane and Bellamy with one eyebrow raised in warning. The men followed her silently until they reached the main gate, but once they were safely inside and their guards had dispersed Kane paused to contemplate Clarke.

"Are you sure about this?" he finally asked. "I trust the Commander, but if Lincoln's correct, her position is weak right now. Indra's just waiting for an excuse to grab power. This could blow up in our faces."

"Do you have a better plan?" Clarke shot back. Her voice was raw, her arms crossed and shoulders curling forward in a way Bellamy recognized as the point where exhaustion caused her to start fraying at the emotional edges. He shifted toward her slightly, shooting an angry glare at Kane for pushing her like this. Ever since Finn's death, Kane and Abby had adjusted their understanding of Clarke. They had decided she no longer needed to be shielded as a child; now she was some sort of damn messiah.

Neither story was true. She was just Clarke.

"I think we've talked enough for tonight, Councilor," Bellamy cut in before Kane could speak. He didn't let either of them protest; he ushered Clarke away from the gate, not quite sure where to take her. She solved that problem for him, moving along the perimeter of the station until the lights of both camps were completely hidden by the hulking monstrosity.

"You should rest," Bellamy murmured once the darkness had nearly swallowed them whole and they were surrounded by nothing but tall dry grasses, facing into a chilly breeze that bit at their cheeks and noses. He could see the tension in her shoulder, just in that one small bare patch above her collar where her hair had fallen to the side and the moonlight set her skin aglow.

"I'm not sure I can sleep right now," she whispered.

"Clarke, tomorrow – "

"Tomorrow." She breathed the word, a violent exhale on the "T" followed by a long, soul-extracting sigh over the rest of it, like she was begging him not to say it ever again. She wrapped her arms around herself for warmth, and suddenly Bellamy wished he had thought to grab her a blanket.

"Wait here." He jogged back to the small bar at the edge of the camp, returning a minute later with a threadbare quilt. Bellamy wanted to apologize for the meager offering, but it was all he could manage on short notice. She accepted it gratefully, wrapping one corner around her shoulders and holding the other half out to him as she sank into the grass and hugged her knees. They sat together in the dark: mute, worried, shoulder-to-shoulder against the world.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N:** Have I mentioned to you how awesome my Beta is? **MarinaBlack1 **(Her Murphy/Lexa piece, Walking Through Fire, is only her latest piece of genius.). And my reader? **Persepholily**. These two ladies are EPIC. They are worthy of the title "Queen", every day of the year._

_**A/N2:** So maybe if you're willing, you can take a brief moment to let me know your thoughts? That'd be super awesome, seriously. I care way (WAY, WAAAYYY) too much about this particular piece. It's not healthy. So feedback means MORE THAN THE WORLD to me these days!_

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><p><strong>Night 8<strong>

Tonight, with the lives of friends hanging in the balance, Bellamy found it ironic that his thoughts kept flitting back to Octavia. No doubt about it: life had been easier when it was just the Blakes. Now, given how much he had ended up caring for the others, Bellamy had to admit a certain relief at Octavia's impeccable timing. She was almost as likely to turn to Lincoln for help these days, which was – okay, he was man enough to say it without the guilt consuming him – it was pretty damn helpful. And of all the people for him to entrust her to, Bellamy sighed, at least Lincoln _got it_. He knew the real prices they all paid for every day of life on Earth, and he took the cost seriously. Who better, really?

Bellamy grinned for a moment. Octavia would kick his ass if she knew he was thinking all this, of course. She'd complain about him being a worrier. But it just came naturally at this point. Worrying about her, worrying about Aurora, worrying about the rest of them... And that's when reality snuck back in, sobering him. It should have been nearly impossible to leave Octavia alone at Camp Jaha so soon after reuniting with her, but that's exactly why Lincoln's presence in their lives mattered. Because Bellamy had to focus on Raven. On Clarke.

He needed to be here tonight, in a cramped musty tent in the middle of Lexa's camp, waiting for this sham of a trial to end. And he definitely needed Octavia to _not_ be here.

Wick and Clarke and Murphy, they were the others who had been chosen to go. The four of them were Raven's witnesses, for all the good it would do. Today, the first day, had been painful and tedious. Clarke and Lexa spent most of the time hammering out every detail, negotiating and bargaining endlessly. Bellamy had interrupted only once, when he felt Lexa was demanding too much and offering too little. Personally, he considered such restraint nearly deserving of an award, since it showed real growth on his part. Clarke obviously disagreed, and he had suffered through her cold shoulder during their awkward dinner in the Grounder camp. Her inability to see how hard he was working had temporarily driven a shaft of anger through him, until Raven was paraded past them in ropes on her way to the post. That sight had sobered everyone and pulled Clarke back to his side. The 'accused' – although fuck their politically cautious terms, he knew from the Ark just how much those kinds of words were worth – would be given time this evening to confer with her witnesses, in preparation for tomorrow's interrogation.

Raven had stared at them, a proud, defiant, terrified, honest stare, and sworn she didn't do it. Clarke had nodded, her small pink mouth drawn into a determined line; this only confirmed what she already knew. Wick had sighed with relief and given away several very awkward hugs, and Murphy and Bellamy had assured Raven they believed her and would not let her be wrongfully convicted.

It just… yes, standing in front of them, with her lip trembling as she said the words… yeah, of course he had believed her. But now… Bellamy hated uncertainty. Uncertainty, like so much down here, was death.

"You're wondering if she did it," Murphy hazarded.

"Shut the hell up," Bellamy warned him.

"Of course she didn't do it, what the fuck?" Wick was half-asleep, but he had never met a conversation he didn't feel could be improved by his presence.

"We know. Don't worry about it." Bellamy silently cursed Murphy for disturbing Wick. At least the guy was getting sleep. They all needed more of that, if they were going to stay sharp throughout this ordeal. Bellamy tossed and turned a while longer, but it was pointless.

"Fuck this. I need some fresh air," he finally grunted. He slipped outside of their tent and came face-to-face with a Grounder spear.

"What are you doing?" the man asked, gesturing aggressively with his weapon.

"Hey, relax; I'm just going for a walk," Bellamy tried.

"That is not part of our orders," the warrior grumbled. The tip of his spear pressed threateningly into the Sky Person's larynx. Bellamy's nostrils flared, but he kept his voice fairly even. Major diplomatic points should be awarded for that.

"Fine. Have it your way. I need to talk to our healer." The warrior nodded at this more acceptable answer and led him to a much smaller tent less than twenty feet away.

"She is still with the criminal." No pussy-footing around with words here, then. "She will be back soon. You may wait for her inside." He pulled the flap open and Bellamy took the hint.

It shouldn't smell like her, all clean and sweet beneath that layer of scars and mud. She had barely spent any time in the tent... so how had she managed to own it already? Bellamy crawled toward the thick pallet and sat at the foot, removing his jacket in the surprising heat of the small space. As he waited he tried not to think of Clarke alone in here, searching for her own sleep surrounded by the very people who had brought her so much sadness.

She entered a few minutes later, only mildly surprised to see him.

"I needed to get some air, and they wouldn't let me," he began defensively. It sounded ridiculous, more excuse than explanation.

"I know; it's why I asked to speak with Raven again. I just wanted to take a walk. She had already fallen asleep tied to the post." As she spoke, Clarke shrugged out of her own jacket and moved toward the bed on which Bellamy was perched.

There was no reason to do it. She had plenty of room in the tent (well, maybe not plenty, but still, she had choices)… He opened his arms, and she didn't hesitate. She didn't even fucking blink. She just curled into the space he had created for her. Bellamy wondered if she felt it as much as he did, the need for these little moments of human contact to help keep the wolves of insanity and despair at bay.

"Bellamy, do you trust me?" She wasn't asking idly. Clarke tended not to ask him idle questions. He thought about her words seriously.

"I do." He tried to remember the last time he gave her anything but a serious answer.

"Then trust me when I say I'm going to _prove_ Raven's innocent." Bellamy frowned and nodded, his chin bumping lightly against her temple.

"Okay. I will."


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N: **Muchas Gracias for continuing to read and leave me such wonderful feedback, and HAPPY NEW YEAR! I wish all of us great mountains of beautiful Bellarke in 2015. I love you ALL!_

_**A/N2: **Extra special hugs to both my fabulous reader, **Persepholily**, and to the amazing **MarinaBlack1** for her awesome beta skills and her EPIC Lexaphy piece, Walking Through Fire. _

_**A/N3: **I was a bit dissatisfied with Night 8... so if you read that one prior to 12/31/14, just be aware I have since gone back and tweaked it slightly.  
><em>

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><p><strong>Night 9 <strong>

Bellamy's wide grin should have lit up the interior of his bunk... Maybe even the whole battered metal room. He kept trying to shut down his elation, but it was proving difficult to control.

She had fucking done it. Clarke had cleared Raven. Bellamy pretended not to notice the way his chest burned with pride at the memory of her, standing in front of all those Grounders, outwitting them all. She had been…Fuck, if she hadn't been just like one of the Furies, beautiful in her righteousness, her eyes bright with vengeance and her river of blonde hair dancing with every angry step.

She had blown him away.

Honestly, it wasn't even the way she stared Lexa in the eye when she asked permission to question Raven. It wasn't the way Clarke seemed at first to be attacking her friend, accusing her of murder, pushing relentlessly until Raven was screaming back in raw hatred, snarling and spitting as she admitted how she wished she _had_ done it. _That_ was when Bellamy had begun searching for an escape route. The petite mechanic seemed so determined to break free, to go after Clarke, and there was no way he would let that happen. But then Clarke had stepped back, dragging a sudden eerie calm around herself, bringing the audience forward in tense anticipation as she asked Raven about the poison. Clarke must have learned how to pull them in like that from watching _his _speeches; she had never done it so effectively before. And that was when he had begun to fear her a bit... Feared her in much the same way he had that fateful night when she sacrificed her own potential happiness at the altar of Finn's painless death.

More than anything else though, he had been left breathless by Clarke.

It was the way she had so deftly slipped in a question about the wrong poison, asking Raven about "monkshood" so casually most had not even thought about it.

It was the way she hadn't even blinked when Indra corrected her.

"Foxglove," the Grounder had interjected automatically, at first seemingly unaware she had spoken at all.

"Indra," Lexa had started, holding one hand up to Clarke even as she turned her clever green eyes on the proud warrior. "Only the Healers have seen Gustus' body. How could you know what poison was used?"

The hushed crowd had held its collective breath. This was an unexpected turn, and they wanted to be sure they understood what was happening. Every furrowed brow, every quick glance left or right suddenly mattered more than usual. When Indra blinked, and shifted her weight to the balls of her feet – preparation for flight, as sure as screaming a confession in this crowd, Bellamy thought – he had finally realized what Clarke and Lexa were doing. This _was_ a sham of a trial, but not in the way Bellamy and the others had assumed.

Tonight, Indra slept tied to the wretched post outside Lexa's tent.

Clarke had bested the Grounders, strengthened her ties to their Commander, and kept her promise: Raven was home. Bellamy let a sigh of admiration escape into the dark empty room. His grin was still hanging on stubbornly when Clarke squeezed through the doorway.

"Murphy's out there, celebrating with Wick and Raven," she noted quietly. "Why aren't you with them?"

There were so many reasons. Most of them involved Bellamy's own selfishness, something he didn't care to analyze at the moment. He could only safely offer a partial answer.

"Now that Raven's been cleared, we need to think about Mount Weather." His grin slipped at the self-imposed reminder. With the moon surer tonight, Clarke was a silvery silhouette moving toward his bunk. He watched the persistent cool light as it tried, and failed, to turn her cold too. Instead she seemed to grow in warmth as she stretched out beside him.

"The Commander always knew it wasn't Raven," she began, her body turned toward his, the words floating between them on the heat of her breath. He shifted to face her, eager for her voice, trying hard to ignore her blatant oversimplification. "She suspected Indra from the start but her hands were tied. There were just too many warriors loyal to Indra; the Commander needed the accusation to come from someone else. So it wouldn't seem tainted."

"I get it, Clarke," Bellamy cut in abruptly, despite his initial desire just to listen. Call it a personality flaw of his, but sometimes when she spoke it felt like she thought he was an idiot - and he needed her to know he was no such thing. "Indra dies a criminal, not a martyr, and the Commander's hands are clean of any political motive." Bellamy felt the grin sneaking back into place. "But how did you know Indra would hang herself with her own words like that?" Clarke grinned back. Bellamy hated the heavy darkness for cloaking such a beautiful part of her happiness from him.

"I really didn't. I thought we'd have to prove Raven doesn't know _anything_ about poisons, and then we could request a search for physical evidence."

"Physical evidence?"

"Yes. Monkshood is one of the poisons the Grounder warriors carry; foxglove is something we actually had on the Ark. If someone wanted to frame one our people, foxglove would be an excellent choice. So… if we had found any traces in the Grounder camp..." They were quiet, watching each other in the not-quite-light, each processing Indra's deviousness in their own way.

Finn's death had seemed to rip all their relationships to shreds, but ultimately it was the Grounders paying the heaviest price. While Raven had ranted and howled, Clarke had been able to see the tempest of grief for what it really was. She had saved her friend, and their hug after Lexa freed Raven of her bindings had brought a relieved lump to Bellamy's throat. Indra, by contrast, had seethed quietly at the discovery of her Commander's weakness. She had felt so betrayed by the woman to whom she had pledged everything, that she was willing to frame one of the Sky People for murder in order to mend the perceived damage. Bellamy's mouth twisted down at the idea of a loyalty so perverse it would drive Indra to treason.

As Clarke's breathing evened out, as each blink of her eyes became heavier and the muscles of her face and neck relaxed, Bellamy's thoughts shifted slightly. He grappled with the instinct to reach out, to caress the little line under her left eye where the stitches had finally been removed, to straighten her collar, smooth her hair. In one of her last moments of clarity, Clarke managed to form her mouth around two silent syllables: "Thank you." Bellamy clenched his jaw to keep from correcting her for the strange, misplaced gratitude.

* * *

><p>"… Bu'there's nothin' can kee' me from lovin' yooou… Not fire… an'… not – not iiiice…" Murphy's singing was terrible. And loud. And drunk. Bellamy's eyes flew open just in time to note a bundle of dark clothing and stringy hair collapse against the far wall, then slide slowly sideways until it had managed something resembling a comfortable position on the floor.<p>

Bellamy groaned. He should make sure Murphy was turned on his side, at least. The last thing they needed was someone choking on their own vomit overnight. He tried to disentangle himself from Clarke (_when had that even happened?_) without waking her, but she moaned a bit and asked him what was wrong, not even bothering to open her eyes. Bellamy ran his hand softly over her cheek and along her jaw, gently assured her he would be right back, then crossed the room to check on Murphy. He shifted smoothly into big brother mode, pulling off the boy's boots, rolling him into a safer sleeping position, and tucking the blanket around him before turning back to the bunk.

He was halfway there when his own earlier actions caught up with him. Bellamy raised one hand to stare at his suddenly burning fingers, hating the traitorous bastards.

_Dammit. _What was he doing, what was he thinking? This was all wrong. So twisted and selfish and... _Wrong_. Bellamy cut sharply to the right, escaping through the doorway and into the black, barren hall. He needed to get away from this, he berated himself as he stumbled blindly forward. Get away from her. From his own stupidity.


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N: **Thank you forever to **MarinaBlack1** for her amazing beta work, and to **Persepholily** for serving as my reader... they are keeping me on track, thank goodness. _

_**A/N2: **I am SO appreciative of all the comments and feedback I've gotten! THANK YOU. It truly feeds the Muses. TRULY. _

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><p><strong>Night 10<strong>

Bellamy opted to patrol the hallways officially tonight, this time armed with a lantern. No need even to go back to his room. Murphy could enjoy a little privacy, and Clarke could sleep peacefully wherever she damn well pleased.

He had kept himself busy all day, not really avoiding personal conversation with her but certainly not seeking it out, either. There was no need to talk. He had said it all to himself last night, during his punishing self-imposed walk of the Ark's black corridors.

Last night. That touch… It hadn't been like touching her before. Before, there was always a reason - even when she hugged him. He'd thought about that hug a lot; it had been simple relief on her part, of course. She could have hugged Octavia the same way, or… he swallowed hard… or Finn. But last night he had crossed a line. The glaring red line he always knew existed between them, the one they had never even talked about, the one they didn't _need_ to talk about because it was so fucking _obvious_. So… _not_ avoiding her, just letting her set the pace of the day.

And what a break-neck pace, too. Clarke had holed up with Lexa for most of the morning, bringing her pile of sketches to the war table so they could share information. (She had beckoned to Bellamy as she headed for the gate, and of _course_ he had fucking followed.) Then back to relay everything to Abby, Kane, and Jaha… where the men still seemed torn about how much they could commit to the rescue effort. Bellamy had suffered one odd moment of retroactive panic at the realization that all their time living in space had been under the protection of these people who couldn't even find their own asses without a committee. He had glanced at Clarke and caught a very different worry in her face: the ghosts of Monty, Jasper, Miller and the others haunted her relentlessly.

This debate over whether or not it would be better to send search parties out for the other fallen sections of the Ark… it was just the latest psychological torture. Clarke had taken personal ownership of those forty-seven lives trapped inside Mount Weather, and Bellamy knew exactly how that felt.

He'd jumped into the discussion then. He was pissed off, and just – dammit, how _good_ would it have felt to actually lay into Kane and Jaha, for Clarke? – but she had stopped him with a rebuke, suggesting he take a walk to calm down. None of the others had even noticed how upset he was, but whatever his tell, Clarke obviously knew it. Of course the look he had tossed her – a bit furious, a bit hateful – was unfair and he still kind of wanted to apologize because she didn't even mean to yell at him, she was just keeping those megalomaniacal adults from finding a new excuse to lock him up…

But then the priorities had shifted because Wick had overheard a strange transmission from Mount Weather. The mysterious message consumed everyone's attention for the rest of the day. Before it seemed possible, the sun was shifting low and casting the world in gold, and then the citizens of Camp Jaha were settling in for bed with the mystery of the transmission chasing them all into their dreams... And still Bellamy paced the halls, a benevolent ghost.

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><p><strong>Night 11<strong>

Bellamy volunteered to cover the night shift watching the still-restrained Lincoln. He hadn't taken on that particular responsibility in a while, and if he continued to let these sort of things slide, what kind of leader was he? The men stared at each other through the shadowy gloom, letting the silence take on various shapes as time passed: awkward, resentful, pitying, comfortable, restless, exhausted. Bellamy finally sank back into the old chair in the corner with a heavy sigh, and let the day wash over him.

Raven had figured out the radio transmission while everyone was at dinner. It was good to see her smile. It was _so damn_ _good_. Bellamy couldn't help a grin in return, and he had looked automatically to Clarke, had caught her eye and hated the way his heart skipped a beat to see her looking so relaxed and happy. But honestly, the happiness changed her; it lit her from within. As he had watched the twinkle in her blue eyes Bellamy had felt a prickle of heat climb the back of his neck. He had torn his gaze away, focusing on Murphy who was carefully carving his initials into the table.

"Octavia thinks highly of you," Lincoln said suddenly, interrupting the memory and causing Bellamy to jump.

"Yeah, well. She'll get over that eventually," he replied with a hint of a smile.

"It's not a bad thing, you know. Being worthy of someone's respect."

"That's not it. It's… Octavia has no life experience. She grew up with just our mother and me for company, and that's a pretty limited way to learn about people."

"I see." Lincoln was silent again, watching the oldest Blake sibling. "Personally, I think you underestimate her."

Bellamy shrugged noncommittally. "Maybe you're right." The men stared at each other, both suddenly reminded that the Octavia issue had never really been resolved between them.

"They say Raven has been listening to Mount Weather," Lincoln said, backing down from this potential for conflict.

"We've been picking up their communications for a while, yes. They just started a lot of chatter about two new stars to the North. Raven's pretty sure they found two sections of the Ark, and from the way the Mountain Men are talking she thinks there are survivors." Even from this distance Bellamy could tell the news worried Lincoln.

"Will this delay the attack on Mount Weather?" Bellamy struggled with the best way to answer. Lincoln was a grey area: Lexa still considered him a traitor, Kane and Abby had him tied up here like an animal, but Octavia loved him. And while he had been dismissive of her ability to read people, he also knew – because he had trained it into her with every bedtime story and imagined game – exactly what traits Octavia admired. If she had found those qualities in Lincoln, Bellamy had to give that some credit. He opted for a reserved honesty in his response.

"Abby and the others think it's safer to find the two fallen pieces of the Ark first, since we would grow our numbers. They believe it will allow us to plan a stronger attack… later." Lincoln didn't need to know about how Clarke had turned to Bellamy after the others left, of her desperate plea, the way she had leaned up into him with her eyes boring into his soul as she urged him not to waste any more time.

"And what do _you_ think?" Lincoln's question pulled a dry laugh from Bellamy.

"Not many people seem interested in that answer these days, Lincoln. Certainly not the ones making decisions."

* * *

><p><strong>Night 12<strong>

Bellamy paced beside the makeshift bed, staring at the wrist cuffs. Lincoln should be out of here. He wasn't a danger to anyone, at least not the way they thought. He wasn't a Reaper any more. And yet Abby still insisted on those damn restraints for Lincoln. Bellamy hated it, but the tall Grounder agreed with her.

"It's just a little bit longer," Lincoln offered quietly. "Nobody's ever survived after being turned, so we don't know what I might do. I need to be sure." Bellamy could hear the unspoken words, the worry for Octavia, the concern at the prospect of relapsing and hurting her. Bellamy shook his head. This wasn't why he was here, anyway. He was here on business.

"Lincoln… If I told you we were leaving for Mount Weather, earlier than you've heard officially… Would you come with us when it's time?" Bellamy watched Lincoln struggle. It was an odd experience, witnessing the warrior's fear. Their previous interactions had been limited to some pretty fucked up violence, and yet Bellamy had never before caught hesitation from Lincoln. Whatever had happened to him in Mount Weather, it must have been so much worse than Bellamy had realized.

"I will go. I have scores to settle," Lincoln finally announced. His jaw hardened as he spoke and Bellamy smiled grimly. Sleep might still be elusive, but at least he was using his insomnia to get shit done.

With Lincoln's promise of support, Bellamy's thoughts wandered again. Despite his best efforts they drifted, as always, back to Clarke. He wondered where she was, who was with her, if she was getting the rest she needed. He scrubbed his hands over his face and sighed at his own weakness.


	9. Chapter 9

_**A/N: **Dare I say it? Do you honestly not know yet? **MarinaBlack1 - **she is the world's best beta, ladies and gentlemen (okay yeah... probably just ladies at this point, amiright?)... And rounding out our gal-pal trio is **Persepholily**, whose lovely insight is always SO INCREDIBLY appreciated!_

_**A/N2:** PLEASE DO NOT GET USED TO BACK-TO-BACK UPDATES. I am heading back into my last few months of Grad School (yay! but ugh! but YAY!) so I am trying to post as much as possible to get this story finished before my life kind of... ends... And frankly, I got lots of feedback on my previous chapter, which makes me feel all warm and Muse-y, and which leads me to..._

_**A/N3:** I am SUCH a whore for reviews. It's true. It's just science: I write more when I get more feedback. (But if you think I'm bad, you should try living with the Muses that have taken up residence inside my head. Really.)_

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><p><strong>Night 13<strong>

The black of night flattened distances; from Bellamy's place at the gate, it was hard to judge the true proximity of the Grounder camp's torches as they danced and guttered with each cold gust of wind. He was tempted to let the lights take over - they were hypnotic in their erratic flickering - but Sergeant Miller murmured a polite good evening before heading for the guard station, and the trance broke, and Bellamy found himself alone with his thoughts. His jaw tightened at the way she floated up so readily through the fog of exhaustion: _Clarke._

She had looked bad today. Not bad in a… _bad_ way, he had certainly seen her worse and she was always still Clarke, but today she seemed… so incredibly tired, as though maybe she _had _stopped sleeping. Bellamy felt the twinge of guilt; of course he did, how could he not? But still. This was the right thing to do. Keeping a subtle distance from her was best for both of them right now. She needed to be able to focus without him losing his shit around her, and he… well, he needed to trust himself not to lose his shit, which he didn't yet.

So he had pushed himself to work on preparations for departure, dealing with those parts he knew Clarke would expect him to handle. There was little need to go over the details: they knew each other well enough not to bother with official assignments. Their friends had been on borrowed time far too long. Mount Weather beckoned.

He'd spoken to Wick and Raven, and ached at the way Raven feigned indifference when he said she couldn't go because of the brace. He had pretended not to see the look of pity – and maybe something else? – in Wick's eyes as the apprentice assured Raven the mission was probably going to be "super boring, really". Wick had even teased her, very carefully, about how useless a mechanic would be in a fight anyway, since clearly _engineers_ were the real heroes of every successful rescue attempt in history. Raven had rolled her eyes in that no-time-for-your-bullshit way of hers, and Bellamy was relieved to see her mood lighten. But then she'd grabbed Wick's arm and made him _promise_ to return because she had run out of people to lose, and Bellamy had to look away at that.

He'd worked out a plan with Murphy and Octavia over lunch, involving the carefully-timed theft of extra guns and ammunition. He knew Clarke was already on it; he'd seen her slip several clips under her shirt earlier. It was shocking to him that nobody else noticed, since she was not particularly subtle. (A dark part of him felt the need to point out the possibility that only _he_ had noticed because only _he_ was paying such close attention. He wanted to reach in and choke that part of himself.)

The last task had been the most difficult, even though he knew it had to be his. Clarke possessed many admirable traits, but she was far less tactful than she believed herself to be. So Bellamy had approached Sergeant Miller late in the evening, finding him near the gate, where he scanned the dark forest endlessly for signs of his son. Bellamy opened with a couple stories about their first weeks on Earth, talked about everyone's confusion and how much it mattered to have someone like Nathan Miller - someone steady and dependable - to help keep order. At first he worried he might have oversold it; but then the Sergeant had made an odd choking sound and Bellamy realized the older man was crying, and that was when Bellamy had very carefully secured the guard's promise of help.

All that was left now, Bellamy realized as a gust of wind brought the scent of wood smoke up the hill, was to find sleep. His pained laugh bounced faintly off the metal of the gate.

He was heading back to the station when he caught the telltale flash of Clarke's blonde hair. She was pacing at the door, unavoidable. _That's fine, _Bellamy thought._ I'm not actually avoiding her. Not like that. I don't have to avoid her all the time._

"Did I piss you off?" she asked as soon as she spotted him. Her arms were folded in a very specific, half-defensive-half-accusing way. It was an unexpected question, and Bellamy didn't know quite how to react.

"What?"

"Did I do something wrong?" This time there was less concern, and more anger. Bellamy frowned and stared down at her.

"Clarke, I honestly have no idea what you're talking about." She seemed smaller tonight; Bellamy thought perhaps it had to do with how little she was eating… not that he'd been paying attention, of course.

Her face contorted for a moment with the discomfort of this conversation, and she fumed at him in silent anger, her mouth tight and her eyes hard. Bellamy forced himself to look past her to the entrance of the station.

"Okay," he finally said. "Glad we had this chat. Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get some sleep." He moved to step around her; she shifted to the side, blocking his path.

"No you wouldn't," Clarke shot back. "You haven't slept in days. You look like shit, Bellamy."

"Well, thanks, Prin – " he stopped himself. He had sworn never to call her that again, had made the vow the night Finn died. He hated himself for this slip-up. And then, because she noticed and so very clearly wanted to ask about it but didn't, he kind of hated her.

"You have to stop punishing yourself for everyone else's mistakes," she said instead. "I need you focused on the mission. And so do our friends, Bellamy. We all need you too much." It took a moment for Bellamy to react to her, mostly because, of all the conversations he could have predicted – of all the conversations he had secretly allowed himself to imagine – nowhere had there been one in which she sought him out in an effort to comfort him. It was… sickening.

"Clarke, I'm fine."

"You're not! You're jumpy, you're not eating, you've been agreeing to all my suggestions, and Murphy says you haven't been back to your room since... since Raven's trial." So she had been keeping tabs on him, too. His chest suddenly felt far too tight; this conversation, far too public. He glanced around at the last of the late-night stragglers before grabbing Clarke's wrist and leading her into Alpha station, where they found a nearby airlock currently being used for storage.

"I'm _not_ having this talk with you right now, Clarke. You're not ready."

"_Which_ talk?" Clarke's stubborn little mouth was a dark crease in her face, thanks to the weak moonlight streaming in through the airlock doors. Bellamy sighed and leaned back against the wall. He knew she wasn't going to let it go.

"… The Finn talk." At his words she licked her lips, shifted her stance slightly, and nodded. It was almost as if she had been expecting this.

"I'm ready. I've _been_ ready, but everyone keeps looking at me like I'm too fragile," she confessed. Bellamy actually grinned then, hoping there was enough darkness to hide his expression. He didn't know anyone who thought of Clarke as fragile, not even Abby. Not anymore.

"I don't think it's that. I think people want to give you… time, to – "

"I _killed_ him, Bellamy." Clarke's voice shook. Bellamy stepped forward, brow furrowed and heart breaking for her all over again.

"I know. And you shouldn't have had to. Clarke, I'm so sorry." At the sincerity in his voice, she finally shattered. She grabbed for him as her legs buckled, her fingers catching in the collar of his jacket; he pulled her upright just in time. Her sobs were almost quiet, because of the way she poured them directly into his chest and the way he let her, absorbing them for her, holding her together as she fell apart. Bellamy swallowed back his own tears at first, because she needed this moment more than he did, but after a while he let them fall: silent tears for all they'd seen, for all they'd lost, for all her pain.

Eventually he shifted them both toward a pile of blankets stacked against the wall, holding on to Clarke as her weeping changed, became less soul-strangling and more generalized. They huddled against each other, two wounded leaders with nothing and nobody else to rely on, letting shared grief and guilt close the distance between them until finally, exhausted and drained, they found the sleep they'd been chasing.


	10. Chapter 10

_**A/N: **Gang, just a reminder that this story is being told from Bellamy's perspective - and that when it comes to his own role, he is best considered an UNRELIABLE NARRATOR. (Also, this is set within Season 2, where his role as leader has been severely compromised. Bob Morley has even referenced Bellamy's sense of powerlessness in interviews.) His journey BACK to a position of leadership is part of this story. Thank you so much!_

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><p><strong>Night 14<strong>

Clarke watched the small group carefully as they moved through the woods in near-total darkness. Bellamy watched Clarke.

It should not matter _this _much to him that she seemed better-rested... but it did. He shouldn't want to claim ownership of that abysmal sleep they had shared... but he did. And they probably needed to talk about whatever emotions Clarke had unearthed last night.

But they didn't.

"You still think it was a mistake to leave her that note," Clarke whispered at one point, when the others had jogged several meters ahead in their effort to keep up with Lexa's smooth, silent pace.

Bellamy shrugged noncommittally before remembering Clarke most likely couldn't see him, dressed in black as he was. She was another matter entirely, of course. Her hair caught and reflected even the faintest hints of starlight; under tonight's waxing moon, she seemed crowned in silver whenever the trees thinned overhead. He frowned away the observation and focused on her statement.

"I think at this point it's irrelevant how much your mother knows," he replied. "She was always hesitant about committing people to a rescue, Clarke. Doing it this way? It was the right decision."

"But if I hadn't written the note…" Clarke wasn't generally this insecure; they were both aware of how dangerous it could be to wallow in what-if scenarios. So where was this unsettling self-doubt coming from? Bellamy thought he knew, and suddenly wished he didn't.

"We can't erase the past, Clarke. We just have to move forward, and focus on what's coming." He hoped his words and tone were supportive, although he suspected it all came out dismissive. "Leaving at night bought us a little extra time before the Mountain Men catch on, but we don't know how much." Raven had been the one to point out they were likely being watched, suggesting a quiet departure under cover of darkness. Bellamy once again felt a stab of guilt for leaving her behind with barely a friend in the crowd.

Clarke still wasn't done. "I just think my mom should know where her people are. _We_ would want to know." Bellamy reached out a hand to stop her briefly.

"Let's get one thing clear: I'm _not_ one of your mother's 'people,'" he began, striving not to sound resentful. It was hard. He respected Abby, but her indecisiveness had proven detrimental once too often for his taste. "Those people in Mount Weather aren't hers either, or a rescue would have been sanctioned weeks ago. Those are _our_ people, Clarke. Yours and mine." He started moving again, worried now about being separated from the rest of the rescue party. Clarke fell into step beside him, silent, thinking. Bellamy couldn't help noting with approval how comfortably Clarke now moved through the woods, even at night. They let the dark chilly forest take over, focusing on the sounds of creatures rustling through the canopy, searching out the safest routes around fallen trees and across gullies, keeping each other upright as they forded icy streams and climbed the steep banks on either side.

"We'll need to rest eventually," Clarke finally admitted, trying to hide her labored breathing.

"I think the Commander has a plan for that," Bellamy assured her with a quick gesture of his chin. Ahead of them, Lexa and her warriors were setting up a rudimentary campsite.

"We can stay here until dawn," Lexa explained, speaking exclusively to Clarke. Bellamy watched the pair as they talked. Clarke _had_ grown up a princess, whether she wanted to admit it or not. She would hate him for thinking it, but honestly – he had come to see it as a benefit. It wasn't that she was a spoiled daughter of privilege, like he had once assumed; she was a leader. The Grounders respected her because she knew how to move and speak and interact with authority, because she was not afraid of those with power. She was their best bargaining tool.

He cursed himself immediately for thinking like that, like one of the Ark people. Clarke was not an asset, for fuck's sake. She was… She was…

"You're staring, big brother," Octavia whispered. When had she settled in beside him, her arms folded in perfect, unconscious mimicry of his own?

"I'm not. I'm listening."

"Lie to someone else." Octavia's voice carried a hint of humor. "I know you better than that." Bellamy sighed at his sister's tenacity.

"They seem to be getting along well," he said of Clarke and Lexa, hoping to divert her attention. "After everything we went through with Anya, I wasn't sure how the Commander would react to her. We need this alliance." It was true, which helped him sell it. It was also a complete reversal from how he had viewed the Grounders a month ago.

"Hm. Well, the Commander pardoned Lincoln, so that's good enough for me," Octavia answered dismissively. Then she was off, probably bored by what she considered Bellamy's obsessive fascination with politics. He could hear her calling out to Wick and Murphy, and bit back an instinctive desire to punch both men. Octavia wasn't flirting with them, he warned himself; she was making sure they had eaten. It was a good reminder of just how much she had grown.

"We'll make do without a fire tonight," Clarke began as she returned to his side.

"I know," Bellamy answered. "Too visible. It's going to get really damn cold in about an hour, though."

"I know," she shot back, edgy. "We'll all just have to try and conserve body heat." She stilled, watching as the rest of the rescue party drifted through the dark in search of any comfortable place to grab a couple hours' sleep.

Bellamy frowned. Somehow awkwardness had crept into the space between them, and it made no rational sense. He shifted his rifle onto his back and looked around, spotting a wide bare oak about ten meters to their south. Fuck awkward. It wasn't new to them, and they'd certainly survived worse.

"There," he said, pointing the tree out to Clarke. She nodded immediately. The oak's dried leaves had formed a thick blanket around its base; together, they cleared a small hollow and tucked up against the trunk, pulling the leaves back around them.

"Does this count as hibernation?" Clarke asked, curling into Bellamy's side. He panicked for a moment, trying to remember what that word meant.

"…Isn't that what animals do in winter? Sleeping the whole time?"

"Mm-hm. Probably not, then." As she spoke, she shifted slightly, removing her elbow from his ribs and settling more heavily onto his shoulder. Her breathing evened and slowed, a warm tickle along the crease of his neck. Bellamy leaned his head against the tree and closed his eyes, shutting out the rest of the campers. He wished he could do the same to his racing thoughts, but instead they chased him into his dreams.


	11. Chapter 11

_**A/N: **This chapter hurts me. Physically hurts me. There's so much... Argh these characters! (Thank goodness for MarinaBlack1, officially the world's best beta and also a hell of a writer, and my adorable, perfect reader, Persepholily. I'd be a hollow shell of a woman without them.)_

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><p><strong>Night 15<strong>

Clarke stood just to the side of an aging concrete dam, and stared across the ravine at the mountain that had imprisoned her. The moonlight outlined her perfectly in its cool light. Bellamy knew he should warn her she was an easy target standing on the cliff edge like that but... He couldn't bring himself to do it. Clarke never got peace. She needed these few stolen moments, and he would keep watch while she took them.

He felt movement behind them and turned, determined not to give Octavia the satisfaction of catching him like this two nights in a row.

"Clarke is too visible there," Lincoln said quietly, joining Bellamy and redirecting his attention back to the cliff.

"She knows. She'll move soon," Bellamy assured him in a hoarse whisper. Lincoln nodded, ceding to Bellamy's knowledge of his partner. There was silence for a moment.

"She's hurting," Lincoln noted.

Bellamy frowned and nodded slightly. "She has a right to," he said. "She's lost a lot." Lincoln opened his mouth to answer but Wick came crashing through the undergrowth, causing both men to cringe. The Sky People still had so much to learn about life in the woods.

"How's the view?" Wick asked; his voice carried to Clarke. She spotted them in the shadows and wandered back their way.

"Wick will need help getting to the hydroelectric controls once we're inside," she pointed out, as if picking up the thread of an ongoing conversation. "I'll go with him." Everyone tensed at her serious tone. Gone was the peacefulness of the night.

"Like hell you will." Bellamy knew it was not a smart reaction, but she –

"Do you have a better idea?" she asked.

– Dammit, she had kept this from him _on purpose._ She _knew_ he'd be upset; she had waited until the last minute –

"I'll get us all in," Clarke pressed, "But you and I both know Wick _has_ to make it to that control room. It's our only chance at stopping them forever." She stared up at Bellamy as she spoke, her eyes glancing over his features, silently begging him to see her point of view. "Bellamy, I need _you_ to get our people out. Wick and I will meet you back here." She was calm. She had made her peace with this new plan.

Bellamy had not. He licked his lips, furrowed his brow, shook his head at her. It was all his own fault. How could he not have realized she would do something like this? Volunteer to lead a suicide mission into the bowels of a mountain, only to take it a step further and select herself for the most dangerous leg of that mission?

"Clarke, I don't like this." It was the truest statement he could make without admitting more than he should, without possibly skittering over the edge of reason. And with Lincoln and Wick - _and when the hell had Murphy shown up?_ - all staring at him, he needed to be in control of this moment.

"I know you don't," she said.

Bellamy swallowed hard. He was reading too much in the softness of her gaze, the slight downward pull of her mouth, the way she stepped into his personal space as she touched his sleeve. This was getting into that off-limits territory again. Bellamy sighed.

"Okay. We'll do it your way." He pulled back from her abruptly, gathering the men and reminding them to get some rest. He could feel a toxic mix of dark emotions building in his chest, and almost hurt with the need for release from the poison.

"What'll you do if she doesn't make it?" Murphy asked. It might have sounded sympathetic, coming from any other person.

"Shut up, Murphy," Bellamy growled, but Murphy ignored the warning.

"I mean, she's basically your security blanket at this point. If Clarke bites it –" Bellamy rounded on him with a snarl, his hand fisting into the fabric of Murphy's jacket.

"I said fuck _off!_"

"Well _damn_, Bellamy, if I didn't know better –"

"What's going on here?" Clarke interrupted; she sounded annoyed, but Bellamy was still seething, and he refused to look away from Murphy. Instead he tossed a shoddy excuse over his shoulder and made damn sure Murphy knew to get the hell out of his sight. Only then did he turn to Clarke. She raised an eyebrow, curious, but he refused to let her goad him into a conversation about what had just happened between the two men. He let her lead the way to the shelter of a pine tree near the cliffs; the ground beneath its branches was dry and soft, carpeted in long red needles.

She curled against him for warmth, and he closed his eyes.

"Clarke, tomorrow… be careful," Bellamy said. There was a beat of silence, and he thought maybe she hadn't heard him.

"...You too," she finally whispered into the dark.

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><p><strong>Night 16<strong>

Bellamy never – well, hardly ever – looked for Clarke when they were in the midst of battle. It was one of those habits he had originally developed to protect Octavia, on the Ark. Because when the guards came for an inspection, you could not – _absolutely not ever_, Aurora would say to her tiny son each time, gripping his shoulders and staring as though she was examining his soul – look in the direction of the crawl space. To do so was to reveal their weakness. An unthinking glance at just the wrong moment, and their most valued treasure would be ripped from them.

But sometimes, when he knew it was safe enough, Bellamy would risk it… because he needed to know Octavia was still hidden. Because he needed that confirmation. And because, despite his mother's strength and her demand that he be just as strong, Bellamy was always too fucking _weak_.

And so he risked a glance at Clarke tonight, blood-smeared and breathless, fighting her way through Mount Weather's security guards like she was born to it. He refused to smile, even though a fierce warm pride pounded in his veins.

"Where's Octavia?" he called during a relative lull, recalling his other priorities.

"She and Lincoln went after Wallace's son," Clarke explained. "They'll find us later."

"How?"

"Lincoln copied my map."

"… And the Commander? Is she going to be okay back there?" He gestured behind them.

Clarke looked over her shoulder at the dark entrance leading to the mining tunnels. Even from this distance they could hear the sounds of Lexa and her warriors, battling Reapers. She nodded grimly at Bellamy in assurance and he nodded back, then followed her through the underground maze that led to their friends.

Who was it that originally said, "War is hell?"

They were so damn right.

It really _was_ hell. It was claustrophobic, an entire mountain hanging over their heads and an army of ghostly men and women to fight through, and at the end of it all they found a room filled with… people they barely recognized. Jasper insisted on finding Monty and Harper, and Maya. Bellamy couldn't remember any of their people having that name, but the way Clarke reacted to Jasper's frantic search suggested a much more complex story than Bellamy was willing to deal with at the moment.

The big room, filled with huge cages, was nauseating even though he had been warned ahead of time. Bellamy actually heard Wick get sick in a corner. Clarke had no time for their horrified reactions; she moved swiftly downs the rows until she came to one that made her gasp softly. The others didn't notice at first, but Bellamy pushed past them to be at her side just as she shot the lock open with the handgun he had given her (a dangerously stupid way to open a lock, he would have stopped her if he had known that was her plan) and wrenched open the door.

Monty, pallid and anemic, insisted the nearly-dead Harper go first. She was jarringly listless, dull-eyed. The sad image drove them all a little mad, and with Harper as a rallying point they fought that much harder for each step they took back through that hell.

They were almost out when their path was blocked by a man Bellamy just _knew_ must be Dante Wallace, and Clarke became so disturbingly quiet Bellamy considered killing him right then. She must have sensed his violent intent in the way he moved though, because she grabbed his arm. She managed to dredge up the last remaining shards of their at-this-point quite threadbare mercy, turning to Bellamy, watching him in that mind-reading way of hers, silently asking him not to harm this man.

Bellamy growled in frustration. He had run out of words in this decadent underground world.

"Jasper?" Clarke called, eyes never leaving Bellamy's face. "Did President Wallace receive one of the bone marrow transplants you mentioned?"

"I – I don't know," Jasper called back. "Maya did, she was one of the test subjects. It's how we knew they were doing it at all."

"Yes, Clarke, Dr. Tsing performed the transplant as soon as Maya's procedure proved it was safe. But I assure you, I had no idea your friends were being – "

"We don't have time for this," Bellamy interrupted, trying to remind Clarke of their mission. She seemed thrown; without really stopping to consider the consequences he reached for her cheek, brushing his thumb over a cut that was still healing. "Clarke," he whispered, calling her back from wherever she had gone.

It must have been enough. She blinked once, and her eyes were clear again, focused. "Miller, Wick, change of plans. We'll be taking President Wallace with us." She motioned to them.

"But… the dam?" Wick seemed confused; Bellamy couldn't blame him.

"What are you doing?" he asked Clarke as the men took Wallace into custody. "Wick needs to go."

"Bellamy, this is better," Clarke answered. She pulled him to one side in an attempt at some privacy. "We can use Wallace as a bargaining chip. This way we don't need to kill the electricity to the mountain at all; it means we won't have even more innocent blood on our hands."

Privately, he referred to these as "Finn Moments" – those times, rarer with each passing day, when their friend's ghost came back to haunt them in some new way. Her eyes weren't just clear now; they were wet, shimmering with tears she wouldn't let fall, and Bellamy struggled for some outward semblance of calm. His chest collapsed and a dark, wretched need to kiss her surfaced, was shoved mercilessly to the side as he watched her rein in her grief.

"Okay. Okay, Clarke. We'll do it your way," Bellamy agreed, because even though he had come to this mountain to avenge his friends and _her_, that wasn't what _she_ needed. She needed to know they still retained their humanity. She needed to see they were not going to… to descend into the darkness, as Finn had.

He shouldered his rifle and together they led their people back through the tunnels. Dawn was coming.

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><p><em><strong>** Once again I shall gently remind that feedback makes me feel really lovely and warm and gooey inside. Which I like. So then I want to write MORE, so I can get MORE feedback... see how that works? It's a... well, kind of a... "feedback loop" you might say.**<strong>_


	12. Chapter 12

_**A/N:** Okay. I had homework. So I wrote this. Muchas gracias as always to my incomparable beta, **MarinaBlack1** (are you reading Walking Through Fire yet, because it is chock full of Murphy epicness) and to the world's best reader, **Persepholily**. I love you both in unhealthy ways. I Bellarke amounts of love you._

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><p><strong>Night 17<strong>

He kept forgetting: there was always a new lesson for Earth to teach them. He could lull himself into an odd sense of comfort about the perpetual violence, the unrelenting danger – and completely forget he had experienced only a few months' worth of what this planet had to offer. The grounders used the trees. He knew that… he just hadn't _understood_ it. They could move through the thickest parts of the forest without setting foot on the ground, and apparently they could even live up here if it came to it.

Now, clutching the silvery tree trunk beside him, Bellamy surveyed this tiny aerial city Lexa and her warriors had constructed over the course of the past two hours.

The hardest part should have been getting the injured into the air, but the Grounders knew what they were doing. With an ease that came from years of practice, they had rigged pulleys and hauled up first the weakest of the Sky People, then their own wounded. Now a network of makeshift hammocks criss-crossed the branches and Nyko passed among them, administering what first aid he could.

"I should go help," Clarke announced quietly, easing onto the limb nearest Bellamy. He glanced at her in disbelief.

"Have you watched how they travel up here? That's a thirty-foot drop, Clarke. It's too damn dangerous." Bellamy shook his head and turned back to watch Nyko. Of course she would go, though. She was Clarke. She _never_ fucking listened to him. He was busy keeping her alive, and sometimes he couldn't help but wonder if she had the opposite goal, the way she contradicted his every demand. He wasn't trying to prove he was in charge – not anymore. He was just…

He was just trying not to lose her.

_Ah, shit._

"Clarke! Hey wait!" he half-whispered as he crawled after her along the thick branch. This was suicide. Humans were meant to walk and run, not jump around in trees like squirrels. As Clarke neared the end of the branch it bent and swayed, and Bellamy cursed, trying to visualize how he would grab her, how to hold her so he landed first and protected her from that deadly impact with the forest floor –

She reached out to grab an overhanging branch from the next tree and swung forward, and only when he saw she was safe did Bellamy let himself give in to the wave of panic, like a cold fire burning across his skin. Just for a moment. Then he swallowed and followed, landing more heavily than she but not worried about form so much as catching up to her.

"What the hell was that?" he asked in hushed tones once they were both safely hugging this new tree. She was so close he could hear her breathing. Her brow wrinkled in confusion at his obvious anger.

"I watched Octavia, she does it all the time. And Lincoln took that same route earlier tonight. I knew the branch would support me."

"Dammit Clarke, I don't _care_ about Lincoln, I care about _you_!" Even Nyko looked at him then. Bellamy felt heat rushing up his neck and face, and was thankful the weak moonlight washed out color. He sought to recover. "We're all relying on you now. You can't just do whatever the hell you want." He knew he had phrased it wrong the minute he said it. Her quick grin infuriated him, but at least she had the decency to grow serious immediately after, instead of needling him further.

"I need to check on my patients. We've been traveling all day, with barely any time to rest." Clarke turned toward Nyko and let him lead her to Harper, who still looked like she could go at any moment.

Bellamy counted to ten. Then twenty. Once he felt calmer he sought out the Commander and found her in a nearby tree, balancing lightly on a branch in front of their prisoner. The Grounders had strung a rope bridge across the expanse here, which Bellamy gripped tightly as he inched his way over the yawning darkness below. Dante Wallace was bound and gagged, and part of Bellamy envied his security, tied so tightly to the trunk that way.

"I should kill him," Lexa announced. She did not even glance back to see who had arrived.

"You _could_ have, a dozen times over by now," Bellamy pointed out. "So why haven't you? Why didn't you, back at the dam?"

"He is not my prisoner. He belongs to Clarke, and she is now responsible for seeing that justice is served."

Bellamy was silent. He had seen Lexa's face when Clarke and Bellamy appeared at the top of the dam with Dante in tow. She had not been angry; she had been surprised and disappointed. Lexa immediately accused Clarke of treachery, of betraying the Forest people and the memory of all those who had been lost. For a long tense minute Bellamy had watched as Clarke waged an internal war over how best to respond; at one point, he was sure one or both of the women would end up like Sterling and Charlotte, a body at the bottom of the ravine. But then Clarke had asked about the eighteen lives lost in the Grounder village. And Bellamy saw and heard it, a tiny shudder-stutter of pain and anger and guilt at the memory of such a terrible crime committed in her name. It was the fulcrum around which Clarke's moral compass now swung. The Commander had noticed too, Bellamy was sure, because she tilted her head and, instead of responding to the question, asked for more information about those inside the mountain.

"Children. Old people. Healers. Innocent people, like yours. Do they _really_ deserve to die for their leaders' crimes? Because that's what will happen if we shut down the mountain. They can't survive out here, and they'll suffocate in there." Clarke had a funny little way of shifting her jaw forward just a bit whenever she was settling in for a long bout of stubbornness. Bellamy knew it well, and when he had seen it, he'd felt compelled to step in.

"Listen, we've got people dying, and we're an easy target out in the open like this. Let's argue later. For now we need to take cover." Getting nearly one hundred people to cross the dam unseen was always going to be impossible, something he and Clarke had discussed for hours without finding a better solution. They had made it almost halfway before the Mountain Men managed to rally a half-hearted pursuit, but even so there were still far too many casualties – including a tall blond boy named Tim, and a tiny dark-haired girl who'd seemed to have a crush on Miller. It wasn't until they were safely hidden in the woods that anyone realized Wick had been shot, too. He was big, too big for most people to carry, but Lincoln and Nyko had volunteered to take turns. Bellamy watched Clarke hastily rip a section of fabric from the bottom of her own shirt and stuff it into the bullet wound – to keep him from leaving a blood trail, she had whispered quietly to Bellamy when the others weren't paying attention, a confession that chilled them both. She seemed nervous about Wick's prognosis, and Bellamy tried not to picture how Raven had fallen apart the last time she lost someone close to her.

"Bellamy!" Clarke's voice brought him back to the moment and without a second glance at the Commander, Bellamy returned to her. She was with Wick now, speaking to Nyko in hushed tones, describing a procedure Bellamy understood just enough of to hate. She turned to him next. "We have to get the bullet out. And it's going to hurt. You… you have to hold him down. You have to keep him quiet."

It was disgusting. It was always disgusting, every time he watched Clarke reach inside another human like that, moving through blood and tissue and bone. But she made it beautiful, too, in the way she refused to look away, in the way she cared so much for the humanity of her patient. Clarke was life, fighting the battle against death single-handedly, and when she managed to pull that bullet from Wick's side, Bellamy released a breath he had not realized he was holding. For tonight, life had won. Clarke had won. Nyko moved forward to finish dressing the wound, and Bellamy silently offered Clarke his canteen so she could wash up.

"You should rest, Clarke of the Sky People," Nyko rumbled as he worked. "I will care for your friends." She thanked him and stared up at Bellamy. She looked like she was waiting for him. He wanted it to be true, and admitting that to himself should have been a hell of a lot harder than it was, but tonight everything felt uprooted and unsteady, including his own self-restraint.

When they found an empty limb, in a tree close to the injured so Clarke could help if needed, Bellamy began pulling his belt through its loops. He caught Clarke's raised eyebrow.

"I don't know about you, but I don't want to fall thirty feet in my sleep." He looped the belt around both his leg and the limb of the tree. "What's your plan?"

"I guess I could use my jacket to tie myself in…" Clarke looked suddenly exhausted and scared and cold and small, straddling the tree branch and watching him as he leaned against the trunk in relative comfort.

"You'd freeze." He sighed. "Come here." Bellamy traded places with her, tightening his belt around her leg and absolutely refusing to look up when his fingers brushed along her thigh. "Is it too tight?"

"It's fine. - What are you going to do?"

"You need sleep more than I do."

"Shut up, Bellamy. You'll kill yourself if you keep going like this. You promised me you'd sleep when we got our friends back. Well they're back, so now you sleep. Okay?" He couldn't have refused her under the best circumstances. Tonight… He slid into the open space behind her, bracing himself against the trunk of the tree for added support. Clarke leaned back, pinning him to the spot. She was warm and soft and without really meaning to he wrapped his arms around her to steady himself, and wondered how easy it might be for her to feel his heart pounding in his chest. He could barely hear anything over the drumming of it.

Together they watched the dark shadowy figures of friends and allies settling into their own little treetop nests, a strangely beautiful scene.

"Don't fall," Clarke eventually murmured with a yawn as she let her head sink into his chest and her breathing became more regular.

_...Too fucking late_, Bellamy Blake finally admitted to himself, in silent surrender.


	13. Chapter 13

_**A/N: **I love you all so much. I feel terrible because the feedback for this story has been... **phenomenal**. So overwhelming in fact, that I'm about a week behind in my replies. I am sorry about that. I will get to yours, I promise. With work/school/children/all those other little obligations, I'm stretched SUPER thin right now. **But please do not stop letting me know your thoughts! I NEED them, like Bellamy needs Clarke.**_

_**A/N2:** Some of you would love longer chapters. Yes please, I would love that too! ...But right now, this is the best I can do. These really are complex to write (at least for me; maybe others would do a better job) since they're Bellamy's skewed version of reality... Plus as I said, I have a lot going on right now. I can either post these shorter chapters fairly regularly... or possibly not have time to post at all. I'm so sorry. If someone can figure out how to make this a lucrative career choice for me, let me know and I'll write Bellarke all day, every day until you HATE me! Hahaha!_

_**A/N3:** I promise, this suuuuuuper slow burn is about to seriously heat up. I promise. I sincerely promise._

_**A/N4:** I've heard about an upcoming Bellarke moment in the next episode. YAY! BUT PLEASE NO SPOILERS. I AM NOT GOOD ABOUT SPOILERS. I get a little crazy, and not in a pretty way. In a neurotic, death spiral, "I'll never write again" way._

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><p><strong>Night 18<strong>

Clarke was gone again, climbing around the branches of their newest forest campsite, checking on patients with Octavia in tow. It kept the youngest Blake busy, which was good – but even beyond that Nyko liked her, and she had proven herself a capable healer's assistant. Maybe, down here in this new world and these new rules, with Octavia's skillful hands and quick mind… maybe there was a life beyond seamstress work for her. And if that came true, if Octavia became a healer, Bellamy would have Clarke to thank. Clarke saw Octavia as more than just his younger sister; she saw potential, and she loved Octavia. It was yet one more way she had dug herself into his life, into his heart, without him even noticing.

Bellamy grunted as he weaved a long rope back and forth between two closely-spaced branches, keeping busy. When he was confident it was secure he sat back to consider his efforts. This was the kind of work he liked. Building something, doing something useful. Not digging graves as he had done earlier today, the mindless brute labor of death such a hope-crushing activity. Three of the Mount Weather escapees had not made it to this second campsite, two Grounders and a painfully young teen named Gerry… Bellamy shook away the memory of the boy's small pale face.

By the time Clarke and Octavia returned, he was sprawled on one of six tight rope-beds interspersed throughout the canopy, finishing a knot. Octavia laughed in delight and threw herself down beside him, offering a half-compliment about his skills as a homemaker. Bellamy barely heard her. He was watching Clarke, watching admiration burn in her eyes and wondering how something so simple could warm him so magnificently.

"I only had enough rope to make a few, though. People will have to share," he warned the women.

"Lincoln!" Octavia called softly before he had even finished; she was gone so fast Bellamy was tempted to search the ground below in case she had fallen.

Clarke sank gingerly onto the bed beside him, crossing her legs and running her hands over the surface. "It's amazing, actually. It's much sturdier than the way the Grounders do it." Bellamy bit his lip to suppress the grin her words caused, and tucked one arm under his head as he stared up through the bare branches at a black sky dusted generously with stars.

Eventually he glanced over at Clarke. She had not moved. He worried about that, about the silent way she watched him.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"We have to make it back to Camp tomorrow," Bellamy offered, and perhaps it was the simple mundanity of the comment, or the safety of the topic, but Clarke nodded and shifted until she was lying down beside him, also staring up at the star-crusted darkness of their former home.

"Well besides Wick, Monty and Harper worry me the most. Harper was the bone marrow donor for Maya and two other test subjects – although Maya says the others had a bad reaction and their bodies rejected the transplant. But nobody should have to endure that many extractions. And Monty had just had his second procedure when we freed them."

"Clarke, their best chance at survival –"

"- Is my mother, I know." Clarke sighed and turned her head slightly toward him. "Wick too. And there are other injuries." She narrowed her eyes at him, waiting for him to acknowledge the blood-soaked rip in his pant leg just above the knee, where a bullet had grazed him as they fled the dam.

"I made a sling for Murphy," Bellamy pointed out. Deflection. He was good at deflection. "And Miller says the rest of our people are in pretty good shape, compared to the Grounders."

"Well, that's true. Honestly, I think we might lose a few more before we get back." Clarke shivered as a cold wind gusted over them, and pulled close to Bellamy.

They were safer now though, Bellamy reminded himself, holding Clarke and trying not to be that asshole whose own body betrayed his need for her whenever she sighed or pressed her palm against his chest for leverage as she adjusted, molding her soft curves into his side.

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><p><strong>Night 19<strong>

They could celebrate later. They _would_ celebrate later, it wasn't really a question. There would be reunions between families, and acts of heroism to honor. But right now, Kane and Abby were focused on more immediate problems: Clarke and Bellamy had appeared with the survivors just as the sun was setting. So for Abby it was about saving as many lives as possible, not just their own people but Grounders too; and for Kane, it was about deciding how to proceed with their sudden prisoners in a way that would satisfy the Commander.

Well. At least they were all back at Camp Jaha. They were exhausted, many nearly dead, and Major Byrne had almost choked on her own spitefulness when Bellamy and Clarke turned over Maya and Wallace. Actually, Jasper had flipped out too; he'd insisted Maya didn't need to be imprisoned. Monty, himself barely conscious, had looked at Clarke and whispered, "Do it," and that had been enough for them all. Maya could appeal the decision in the morning.

The best part of today had been walking Miller to the camp's impromptu prison, where Kane and Abby had locked up a certain obstructionist security guard a few days ago.

"Nathan!" His father's voice, so clean and happy and relieved, had awoken a bit of Miller's youthfulness. He dropped the jaded edge for a moment, rushing into his father's strong hug – and Bellamy crossed his arms over his own bitter heart, trying to rein in the jealousy. Both men deserved this, and he would not ruin it with self-pity.

It was late, and all his immediate responsibilities were done. Kane had been debriefed, Lexa had returned to her camp after leaving two warriors just outside the gates for security (whether protecting her injured people from harm, or ensuring the Mountain Men stayed locked up, Bellamy was not sure – he knew only that asking would not be wise). He had accounted for all the rifles, the supplies, the people…

...And now Bellamy was left to wait for Clarke.

Of _course_ he waited for her. He hated himself for it though, hated the way his body and his thoughts and his damn stupid traitorous heart all just _turned_ on him, as soon as darkness descended. They craved the nearness of her, and the quiet peace she brought with her on even the worst nights, and Bellamy paced outside the overcrowded medical tent like a fucking dog in that Pavlov experiment, waiting for her to reappear and make his world better again.

Octavia stepped out first. As soon as she saw Bellamy she tried to hide the evidence of her tears, but she had always been terrible at that. He opened his arms and she poured herself against him.

"We should have gone sooner," she sobbed. "I don't think Harper… I don't know, Bell, I'm scared."

"What did Abby say?"

"She thanked me and Lincoln for killing Dr. Tsing and Cage Wallace. She said we saved the world from monsters."

"About _Harper_, O. What did she say about Harper?"

"That_ is_ what she said about Harper!"

"Dammit." Bellamy pulled back and stared at Octavia, tiny and delicate behind the layer of dirt and blood caking her face. He could see bare skin where tears washed clean thin trails down her cheeks, a reversal of the Commander's dark war paint.

"She's a fighter, O. She'll pull through. They all will." He didn't really believe that of course, because every day on Earth had branded the exact opposite lesson directly into his brain. But it calmed her down, at least temporarily.

Murphy was the next to appear.

"Well, that was an exciting day," he said as soon as he saw the siblings.

"Fuck off," Octavia growled. She had far less patience for him than Bellamy did. It was probably a holdover from when Murphy had tried hanging her brother. Bellamy bent over Octavia, pressing a kiss against the crown of her head to help hide a smile at her expense.

"Come on. You thought Wick was going to die, too. Admit it," Murphy continued.

"I heard Abby say Clarke saved his life. That's all that matters. He'll be up and walking in a couple days," Bellamy answered, trying to quell the confrontation before it got too far. He was working on forgetting the day, not reliving it. They had buried two more casualties late in the afternoon, two new souls to weigh on Bellamy in his dark moments.

"Yeah sure, he'll live – but then what, he's going to build _himself_ a brace too, to match Raven's?"

"Shut _up_, Murphy," Clarke said from the doorway. Bellamy felt it, the way his body instantly rebelled against him; like it was mad at him, as though _he_ was somehow personally to blame for keeping Clarke away this long. Heart rate spiked, muscles tensed at the sound of her voice. Octavia stilled in his arms, then stepped back. He did not like the way she was staring at him. Even as he spoke to his partner, he was frowning at his little sister and her suspicious eyes.

"They don't need you in medical?" he asked Clarke.

"Jackson kicked me out," she explained. She was more tired than she wanted to admit, obviously; Octavia moved from Bellamy's side, waving good night with one last questioning glance before turning in search of Lincoln, and Clarke quickly stepped forward. It was possible nobody else noticed the way Bellamy and every atom in his stupid fucking disloyal body pulled toward her when she leaned her shoulder into his arm for support. Maybe he hid it well enough. He closed his eyes briefly, not quite trusting himself to speak yet.

"Hey, no funny business over there," Murphy said, leering at them. _Asshole_. Bellamy could sense Clarke tensing up at the joke, and he was glad Octavia had slipped away.

"Clarke," Bellamy warned her, "Let it go."

She nodded and looked up at him, ripping him open with the sudden insecurity in her eyes. All he could think about was making her not hurt.

"Good _night_, Murphy." Bellamy gingerly wrapped his arm around Clarke's shoulders and guided her away from the potential conflict, toward the security and privacy and comfort of the little room inside the fallen space station.

A tiny groan of pain escaped her as she tucked into the bunk beside Bellamy, turning to face him.

"You're hurt," he accused her.

"I'm sore, but I'll survive," she whispered. "I'm actually more worried about you." He half-chuckled at that.

"I'm fine."

"You should at least let me treat that cut on your leg. It looks deep," she countered. He tensed. How did she even know?

"I'll survive," he shot back. "How's Wick?"

Clarke sighed. "Wick is stable. But Raven… I don't know. She almost lost it all over again, when we brought him in. I didn't realize… Did you?"

"Realize what?" Better to play ignorant here. There was what he knew, and what he _suspected_. And they were quite different.

"Wick and Raven. There's something… between them, isn't there?"

It wasn't the _way_ she said it. Because obviously – _obviously,_ dammit – he wasn't thinking straight. So the way it sounded like she was asking him if he thought it was okay, the way she almost seemed desperate for him to give Raven permission to move on from… from Finn... That was all his own imagination being a cruel motherfucker.

"Raven's known Wick a long time. He lets her be herself, and he's a good person. I think she needs that right now, although I doubt she'd admit it. Beyond that…" Bellamy had to stop.

"Yeah, you're right. She needs that." Clarke took a deep breath, turning onto her back and staring up at the metal above them. Bellamy closed his eyes, hoping for sleep.

"I barely knew Finn," she whispered. A wave of cold dread started at Bellamy's scalp and rolled down his body.

"Clarke..."

"There were things about him that reminded me of my father. He wanted the best for people, and he was willing to risk his life for that." Bellamy swallowed hard. He had never heard her talk like this before. "And he… cared… about me." That hurt. That hurt so much Bellamy shifted suddenly, trying to alleviate the pressure in his chest as she continued. "But really I barely knew him, and I let myself fall for the parts of him I chose instead of seeing all the rest of it. That was a mistake. And I'll _never_ make that mistake again."

Bellamy felt some part of him, some small bright hopeful and above all _dumb_ piece of him, crush under the vehemence of Clarke's declaration.


	14. Chapter 14

_**A/N: **I love my beta **MarinaBlack1**, and my reader **Persepholily**, unhealthy amounts. Every time I'm ready to give up on this story they refuse to let me. Thank you ladies!_

_**A/N2:** Things are (finally!) shifting into a different gear here. Patience, my darlings! Patience!_

* * *

><p><strong>Night 24<strong>

It had taken Kane and Abby less than a day to agree that Bellamy should lead the reconnaissance missions they were sending North. Kane had not minced words: it was increasingly obvious the younger man would do whatever he thought best anyway, and they might as well use that to their advantage. Besides, Blake's quick thinking had saved Clarke's life on more than one occasion, and by everyone's account he had been instrumental in the success at Mount Weather. Even the Commander had praised his actions.

Abby had smiled, a hint of Clarke revealing itself around her eyes, and asked Bellamy who he would take with him. He knew what they were likely to encounter in the woods, after all. While it shouldn't matter at all to him what the Councilors thought, it did feel damn good to know they were coming to him out of respect.

So he had put together a couple small teams, pulling in Mount Weather survivors wherever he felt he could. Bellamy looked away when Kane smiled appreciatively at the final list, determined to keep the older man from knowing how much his approval mattered.

"Your team has no medic?" Abby had asked in surprise.

"Octavia's assisted both Nyko and Clarke. I don't intend to run into trouble but if we do, she can handle it," he assured her, and that was the end of the discussion.

Two days had passed since then. They would leave at first light tomorrow. Bellamy paced the outer fence as he mentally prepared for departure. He had a few reservations about his own team, reservations he'd kept from Abby and Kane. First there was Murphy, who was going to be insufferable the whole way but was damn vicious in a fight. Miller was looking stronger every day, but he was obviously still on edge about Murphy's presence and apparent redemption, so that could be a problem. Then there was the situation with Lincoln and Octavia, which Miller also still found disturbing. The biggest worry, though, was Monty. He was the best of three terrible choices, frankly. Wick had only been up and walking for a day. Raven was a no-go for two reasons: her brace would never make a multi-day trip like that, and she had spent every waking minute (and plenty of sleeping ones) hanging out by Wick's cot in the infirmary. Bellamy had caught part of a conversation between them earlier, as he passed through the medical tent looking for Monty:

"Seriously Raven, go get your dinner. I'll be fine for ten minutes."

"You can't get rid of me that easily. I owe you, Wick, and I repay my debts." She tapped her brace lightly as she spoke.

"So that's all this is, huh? You're just here to pay me back?" Even though he was clearly exhausted, he managed to keep his tone light. Bellamy was impressed. Wick was smoother than he had realized. Raven scowled, slightly confused.

"Yeah, of course. What else would it be?"

"Oh, I don't know. I think maybe you _looove_ me." Wick had been so deadpan, and Raven had smacked him in the arm hard enough to make him yelp – but she had laughed, too.

So no, Raven was not going anywhere right now. She needed all the laughter she could get. Besides, Monty was in better shape than he had been even a few days ago. Bellamy couldn't just leave him here – they needed someone who could handle communications now that Raven and Wick were plotting to recalibrate the Mount Weather antenna.

Mostly, Bellamy thought as he gazed up at a shooting star, he was just glad Clarke would stay in Camp. Everyone else was thrilled at the prospect of Jasper and Maya serving as negotiators with the Mountain Men, but Clarke did not trust their motives and Bellamy was inclined to believe her... In which case, it would be good to have someone here, watching over the process with a critical eye.

He turned toward Raven's Gate, now ticking through the list of his people – those still alive, anyway – and their current whereabouts. Bellamy half-smiled when he realized he hadn't seen Monroe in days; apparently, she and that girl Mel had bonded over Sterling's death and were now inseparable. It was a relief to discover the others were finding ways of coping with all their loss. Even the news about Finn had not rattled the Mount Weather survivors as much as Bellamy had anticipated. There had been tears of course, but since they had not lived through it they also had a slightly removed perspective that, secretly, Bellamy envied.

He was too busy thinking about the others; he didn't notice the slim silhouette ahead. He bumped heavily into Octavia, nearly sending them both into the electrified fence.

"Sorry," he whispered, still half-distracted by his thoughts.

For some reason she refused to let him pass.

"Octavia." Her arms were folded, her stance wide. Bellamy pursed his lips and geared up for a fight even though he was not sure what had set her off. "What do you want, O?" He was tired – but he knew from terrible experience it was better for her to get things off her chest immediately, rather than letting them fester.

"You're being a total idiot." _Hmm, never mind_. If this was just going to be a name-calling session, he had better things to do. Bellamy glared.

"_Thank_ you for sharing."

"Why won't you tell Clarke how you feel?" Blood drained from his face and pooled, heavy and nauseating, somewhere in his stomach. Of all the times for her to become so insightful. Fuck.

"We are _not _having this discussion." He could feel a tightness building in his jaw.

"Yes, we are! Bellamy, you love her. – No, stop!" She pointed one slender forefinger in his face for emphasis. "Don't try to deny it. I've had seventeen bored-off-my-ass years to memorize your face. It's like I said. Lying to me is pointless." He had to get away from her and this brutal honesty. He tried to brush her off but she was on a roll now, and her next words were almost a shout. "You're _in love_ _with her_, Bellamy!"

"Dammit, Octavia!"

She glanced around and lowered her voice. "You _are_! Ahh, I knew it! So then, what's stopping you? Because if it's about me again, dammit Bell, I love you but I'll kill you myself. I'm not – _oh_." She stepped back and covered her mouth with one hand, as her own words and the past month blended together and she saw the big picture. Her eyes grew damp, sympathetic tears just waiting for a chance to fall, and Bellamy couldn't have that. But she kept going before he could deflect.

"_Oh my god_ it's Finn! It is, isn't it?"

"Octavia, don't say it like that. It's… "

"You _have_ to tell her."

"…Why?" No, he really did not. Clarke had been absolutely clear on that first night back after Mount Weather: she had no interest in making another mistake like she had with Finn.

"Because she deserves at _least_ honesty from you at this point, Bell."

"Don't talk to me about what Clarke deserves," he warned.

"She _deserves_ to be happy. And you're denying her that chance."

"No, I'm not."

"If she doesn't know how you – "

"O, Clarke's personal life is none of your business!" Relentless, that was the word for her. _Relentless_. The way she just kept pushing.

"She's my friend. I care about her, too." Damn Octavia. Damn her and that first haunting tear spilling over, dragging him down with it. He pinched at the bridge of his nose, trying to smooth the rough raw tangle of nerves this conversation was pulling from him, trying not to lose it in front of his little sister.

"If you _really_ care, you'll let it go."

"Seriously, Bellamy – "

He snapped then.

"Octavia! She deserves _better_ than me!" His voice was a pained roar, the sound of raw animal distress. In the silent chilly beat that followed, both Blake siblings could feel the chips on their shoulders like great heavy boulders, weighing down every decision they had made up to this point.

"… Oh, Bell." Octavia smiled but it was a kind of wistful smile, and tears now ran down her cheeks freely. "You really are a dumbass." Octavia sat down on a rock and stared at him, waiting for some response from her brother. He tried to compose himself, but it was hard. When had it gotten so hard to be the strong one? Eventually Octavia spoke again, her voice low and clear and soothing, the voice of their mother chasing away the monsters at night.

"Bellamy. Finn's gone. He's gone, okay? Forever. But he's not the first person who ever died. And he won't be the last." She stood then, grabbing her big brother's shoulder and staring at him to make sure he was listening.

"You can't expect her to love the ghost of a dead boy for the rest of her life. It doesn't even matter if you think you're good enough for her. The real question is: could anyone _love_ her better?"

* * *

><p>Parts of Bellamy hoped she wouldn't come to his room tonight. After everything that had just transpired with Octavia, Bellamy was not sure he trusted himself around Clarke.<p>

But she was already in the bunk when he slipped through the door. The moon was waning again so he had only the faintest of light, just enough to catch movement as she turned toward the sound of him dropping his things in the corner.

"Is everything okay?"

"Sure. Where's Murphy?" It was a stupid question but they asked each other every night, because to not ask was to imply acceptance of their new arrangement. It was to officially declare this room Bellamy and Clarke's.

Tonight she didn't even bother with an answer, which was odd. She just shot him a faintly hurt look as he sank onto the edge of the bed, and slid back into the dark corner of the bunk to make room for him – although he was still so tightly wound from Octavia's confrontation he considered giving Clarke the whole berth tonight.

But then she yawned and stretched, and her hand brushed against his lower back. And when she tugged very gently on the hem of his t-shirt he let the need for sleep win out over any pretense at nobility. He stretched out beside her, more careful of personal space tonight than usual, but her head immediately found the crook of his shoulder. With Clarke's left arm slung over his stomach, and her chin digging lightly into his chest, Bellamy's eyes drifted shut. He was nearly out when Clarke spoke, her words thick with impending sleep.

"What time are we leaving tomorrow?"

_Shit._

He had hoped to avoid this conversation. He had planned to be gone before she woke up, leaving it to Abby to explain.

"Clarke, you're needed here," he began quietly. He waited for her to protest, lining up his reasons carefully so she would be unable to talk her way out of this. He waited, but she said nothing. "You need to help with the Mount Weather talks," he said. Silence. "And the medical tent is still overflowing." She tightened her fingers into his side ever-so-slightly but made no attempt to speak. "And there's your mother. She wants to spend time with you, Clarke. You two finally have a chance to be a family again."

She sighed. Her forefinger traced circles into Bellamy's shirt, and he gritted his teeth at the pleasure of it. He was torn between asking her to stop, and grabbing –

"You're right. Everyone needs me here." She sounded… defeated. Bellamy's arms tightened around her slightly and he groaned in understanding. Icy guilt replaced the warmer reaction he'd been experiencing at her touch. It was true. He was asking Clarke to hold them together without stopping to think about _her_. He had bitched about the selfishness of the others, and here he was, doing the same thing. He swallowed back the bitter tang of disgust with himself and craned his neck slightly to look at her, a dim outline in the dark.

"And what do you need, Clarke?" He suddenly realized he had been toying with a loose strand of her hair, although he couldn't be sure when he had even started. Bellamy stilled his hand against the middle of her back, embarrassed at the discovery, hoping she hadn't noticed.

She didn't respond to his question at first, and Bellamy wondered if she had fallen asleep at last. But her finger was still running a delicate pattern over his side, and her breathing was unsteady.

"I don't know, exactly," she confessed. "But I have to go on this mission with you."

Bellamy could have protested; he could have gone through his list again and made her see reason, or he could have tried simply to forbid it. He could have, and they would both have been miserable, and he was tired of making them both miserable. Instead he allowed the internal confession: that he had always dreaded the idea of leaving her behind.

"Okay. You're on my team, then. We were a person short, anyway."

He could almost feel her grinning into his chest.


	15. Chapter 15

_**A/N: **I made an executive decision. I hope you don't mind. I could have spent my time responding to all of your AMAZING comments and feedback - THANK YOU ALL FOR BEING SO INCREDIBLY SUPPORTIVE! ... Or I could write and post the next two chapters pretty much back-to-back, my own form of GIANT thank you. I hope you all approve! (And I will reply to your comments, I will... I just thought you'd like this more.) Keep the comments coming, my darlings! You are all so inspiring!_

_**A/N2: **MarinaBlack1, my amazing beta. Persepholily, my gorgeous reader. Two of the most wonderful women in the world. Know them, love them. They are my Muses, made flesh and bone._

* * *

><p><strong>Night 25<strong>

Tonight the darkness was nearly absolute, the moon a pathetic shell of its former self, but with most of the Reapers rounded up and going through detox and the Grounders as allies, there was no more reason to fear the light from a campfire. The search teams had started this first leg together, and now they were all gathered around a large blaze, laughing and sharing funny stories of their first confused days on Earth. Bellamy leaned against a wide tree nearby and watched them, feeling his muscles loosen now that they were away from Camp. The Ark guards were more relaxed without Byrne around, friendlier. A few of the ones who were closest to Sergeant Miller introduced themselves to his son. It didn't take long before they had gathered him into their small group, passing around a flask one of the guards had brought along. Bellamy bit back a laugh when he caught sight of Miller's vaguely shocked expression at being so readily included. He was still getting used to this new world of pardoned crimes.

Sinclair and Monty sat just to the side, heads bent over the radios as they searched for any transmission from the fallen stations. They seemed content to ignore the rest of the team for now, although Monty looked up at one point, catching Bellamy's eye. He had changed during his time in the mountain; he was more reserved, and if possible even more loyal to Clarke than before.

The only person not accounted for was Murphy. Bellamy scanned the perimeter of their camp looking for some clue as to his whereabouts, only to hear him returning from the woods to the east.

"Murphy," Bellamy called softly. The blue-eyed boy adjusted his path, joining Bellamy under the broad branches of the tree. "I'll take first watch tonight, but I need you to cover second shift."

"Sure thing, Boss." It was amazing how much insolence he could pack into three words. And yet, Bellamy knew he was actually agreeing to the orders. It took a while to understand Murphy's odd balance of sarcasm and sincerity, and Bellamy was glad he had put in the effort.

"How's my old room?" Murphy asked, changing the subject. "Do you miss me?"

Bellamy snorted and scanned the woods again.

"Yeah, I wouldn't miss me either, if I had the Princess in my arms every night." Bellamy tensed. Of course, there were still moments when Murphy was just an ass.

"Watch it," he growled.

"Relax, Clarke's not my type. But you should pay more attention, Bellamy. You wouldn't want to miss your opportunity just because you were too busy being noble." And before Bellamy could respond, Murphy was halfway to the campfire.

_Dammit._ He thought he was doing a good job of keeping his issues to himself; but Octavia and Murphy seemed to see right through him. How was this going to work, then? At what point would Clarke see it too? And when she did, when Bellamy's secret was exposed and his heart was bared to her, what would she do? Would she pity him, resent him? Did he have the right to hope she would ever let herself heal, after all she had done and been through?

"Do you miss sleeping in the trees, Clarke?" Lincoln's question drew Bellamy's attention and snapped him back to the present. The warrior was sprawled near the fire, Octavia resting comfortably in his lap as they both watched the blonde leader. Clarke let her gaze drop from the branches overhead.

"I do, actually. It was almost like floating between two worlds." She smiled at Bellamy as she spoke. He knew what she meant; after he'd gotten over his initial fear, he had been drawn in by the way Earth seemed a little removed and the stars so much closer, up in the canopy. When Clarke looked back toward Lincoln Bellamy turned his own attention up, eyeing the expansive beech tree critically. He had plenty of rope, and the branches were certainly strong enough…

As he climbed, he could hear Octavia steering the conversation a slightly different direction. He shook his head but decided not to stop her, since it would draw too much attention. Instead, he eavesdropped as he worked.

"I'm glad you're coming with us, Clarke."

"Me too."

"I mean, it almost feels like it was before the Ark came down. You and Bellamy, leading together." From his place in the branches above, Bellamy winced at Octavia's lack of nuance. "What made him decide to bring you after all? I thought he said it was safer for you to stay at Camp."

"Hm? I just… told him I should come." He caught Octavia's approving laugh.

"You've figured out the secret of my big brother, then. All bark, no bite. Story of my life." It was the closest she'd come to admitting she'd been spoiled by him.

"I don't agree," Clarke replied, and Bellamy bit back a grin at the way she defended him so readily. "I think he treats you a little differently than most, because he loves you and he wants to protect you… but he also wants you to be happy. And he's not always sure how to make both those things happen. I think he struggles with it a lot, actually." That shut Octavia up, but only temporarily.

"Well, you're probably right. Bellamy _always_ wants to protect the people he loves." Damn, she was really pushing now. He looked down and watched Clarke open her hands toward the fire, warming them, as she considered Octavia's words.

"He loves his people," she replied, almost too quiet for Bellamy to catch the words. "He just didn't know it until he got down here."

The trio on the ground fell silent. Bellamy stretched out on the hammock he'd built for Clarke, and stared up at the endless night sky, and waited for his head to stop spinning.

It was true, that was the most startling part. It was true and while he'd kind of known it, he hadn't ever phrased it that way before. He'd been too busy to realize that all his efforts, all this worrying about Raven and the forty-seven and their survival… it wasn't just about keeping Octavia safe, like he'd originally told himself. It wasn't even his sense of responsibility, at this point. They _all_ mattered now. They were _all_ his family.

"Clarke," he eventually called, still watching the sky, "Up here."

She was grinning broadly by the time she crawled out to join him. He put one hand to his lips and pointed up through the branches.

The heavens were close enough to touch. With such scant moonlight, the Milky Way was a thick ribbon of infinite glittering stardust pouring across the sky, and deep enough to swim in. A shooting star appeared overhead. Then another. Clarke gasped and grabbed Bellamy's knee as the meteor shower picked up speed; she broke their silence only to whisper that it was so different seeing the meteors from down here, and she wished she had her sketchbook, because it was too beautiful.

"Wait…" Bellamy pulled Clarke's crumpled Mount Weather map from his jacket pocket. "Here. And I think I stuffed a pencil in my bag."

He found it and handed it to her before settling back against the ropes to watch the sky dance with light. It took him a moment to realize Clarke hadn't moved; she was still sitting beside him, the pencil hanging idly from her fingers. He raised one eyebrow at her in unspoken question.

"Bellamy… All this… _Thank you_." There was something wrong. Her eyes kept darting across his face, almost as if she were nervous. He sat up and draped one arm across his raised knee, tilting his head at her with a bemused smile.

"It's nothing." He would do so much more for her, if he could.

Clarke drew her own legs up under her chin, hugging them. A brilliant green flash above caught their attention and for a moment, they turned back to admire the new colors appearing overhead.

"I think these are the Geminids," Bellamy finally hazarded, brow furrowed thoughtfully. "They happen in the winter, I remember seeing them back on the – "

He was interrupted by her mouth pressing against his, shutting him up, flooding his brain with hot white pleasure. He knew she shouldn't. He knew there was a reason to stop her… but he couldn't remember what it was. Clarke's teeth dragged temptingly at his lower lip and Bellamy knew only the taste of her and that he needed it forever, felt only the exhilaration of her curious tongue meeting his and his body's electric reaction to it, understood only the way this moment might drown him and he would happily let that happen.

Maybe first kisses were supposed to be soft, sweet, innocent – the timid expression of a potential for more. Or maybe they were supposed to be hot and frantic, the initial shots fired in a battle of passions. This kiss was neither.

It was both.

His hand found and cupped her face, thumb running softly over the sharp angle where her jaw met her throat and as he poured _months_ of unspoken confession against her lips, Clarke wrapped her fingers around the back of his head and tangled them in his hair.

Then someone on the ground below laughed. The spell was broken and Clarke and Bellamy pulled apart, wide-eyed, terrified.

"Bellamy…" Her chest heaved as she choked out his name.

"No." He wasn't strong enough to look at her as he spoke. "Clarke, I can't do this."

Clarke pressed one hand to his cheek, forcing his eyes back to meet hers. He didn't have the words to tell her, to explain how much he wanted to be there for her, how much he wanted _her,_ but not like this; because if anyone had bothered to ask him what _he_ needed, the answer would be that_ he needed her whole_.

She wasn't whole, not yet… And there was no fucking way he would be the one to break her apart all over again.

"I'll go," he whispered, gently removing her hand and setting it on her leg as he fled the tree. He heard her calling after him, but refused to look back.


	16. Chapter 16

_**A/N: **As promised, my next chapter! Please give my beta MarinaBlack1 a HUGE hug for her ROCKSTAR work getting notes to me so quickly! And who could forget the lovely Persepholily, equally patient and supportive of my insanity? I LOVE YOU LADIES SO MUCH!_

_**A/N2:** This chapter kind of shakes things up a bit. I hope you like it!_

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><p><strong>Night 26<strong>

A sleepless night followed by a day of miserable hiking in grey cold sleet had left Bellamy with no patience. So when Miller and Murphy had gotten into it over dinner, he overreacted a bit. He could see that now, sitting alone on the edge of a deep river gorge while the others settled in for an uncomfortable night's sleep several hundred yards away.

They had separated from the second search team in the morning, taking the more easterly route. Lincoln and Monty led, Monty searching for a radio signal with no luck. When the freezing rain started it had been like a sign, a warning that today would not go well… and now, with darkness upon them and no sign of relief from the sleet, they were just a group of wet, dispirited friends, fighting over how they were all supposed to fit into three small tents. Even starting a fire had been a dismal exercise in short tempers and damp firewood. When Lincoln snapped at him over the state of the kindling, Bellamy knew the night was a lost cause.

He needed Clarke. She would give him the right perspective. If he had been wrong to punish Miller and Murphy, she'd tell him – and if he had been right, she'd stand by him. But they were barely talking. She had frowned at him over breakfast, eyes narrowed as she sized him up, then turned to Octavia and asked if she'd like to help gather some of the herbs Lincoln and Monty had identified yesterday. The girls had been inseparable the rest of the day. Then as soon as the group made camp, Clarke and Monty disappeared to gather whatever edible plants they could find. The woods here were thinner, and they had passed several ruins that suggested the area was once populated, so Clarke theorized there might be some abandoned gardens nearby. Bellamy wanted to go with her to keep her safe – but she hadn't asked his opinion, and would probably have scoffed at his paranoia anyway. Still, it felt ghostly seeing those shadowy remnants of a former civilization rising from the dark hills surrounding the river. This was the kind of place where things went wrong.

Bellamy sighed and stood up, finally ready to face the group, when a cry from upstream drew his attention. He knew that yell; it was the sound of his worst nightmare. It was the sound of Clarke in trouble.

"Bellamy!" Her piercing scream burst from a copse of trees just before she and Monty appeared, running toward him with panic-stricken faces. "Bellamy! _RUN!_" Behind them, a trio of snarling monsters poured from the woods in pursuit.

_Reapers? Here?_

Time seemed to slow, thickening around his chest and limbs restrictively. He raised his rifle but it took so long, too long, and he was able to kill only one of them before Clarke and Monty raced past him to safety and the remaining two Reapers attacked. He could feel teeth and knives ripping at him, but his thoughts were with Clarke and he turned to make sure she was safe. That's when one of them struck, landing a heavy blow on Bellamy's back and knocking him to the hard frozen ground; Bellamy managed only to call her name with his last breath.

* * *

><p>Clarke paced beside the kitchen counter-turned-hospital bed. She and Monty had done what they could, and now it was up to Bellamy. Thank goodness for Lincoln, who had remembered this ruined house, half of it gone but the rest dry at least, and safe.<p>

Clarke wiped at her tear-streaked face and stopped pacing to stare. Even knocked out like this, covered in bloody cuts and stitched back together in a dozen places and lying before her so still and quiet, there was something terrifyingly _alive_ about Bellamy Blake. She ran her fingers through the curls at his temple and felt the onslaught of a fresh wave of tears.

"Bellamy," she whispered. "Wake up, please. Just wake up for me, and we'll do it your way, I promise." She pressed her forehead against his. She would. She could be careful, could take it slowly for him if he needed that. She knew it was all backwards; she was the one who should need more time, but she had always been more resilient than people expected. She was not prepared for him to be more fragile than anyone realized.

She had been waiting for him for so long; she had thought maybe their kiss last night could be the beginning of something new, something good and happy… but it turned out he was still torturing himself, still taking ownership of all their mistakes. So she would wait. This was the bargain. She would give him the time he needed to heal, and if he let her, she would give him the forgiveness he seemed unable to give himself... But first he _had_ to wake up.

The others came and went, Octavia and Lincoln bringing her fresh dressings to help prevent infection, Octavia collapsing at her brother's side and begging Clarke to save him, Lincoln scooping her up and taking her… away somewhere, probably to one of the other rooms to calm down.

The boys came in as a group, lost, not sure what to do next. Clarke ordered them to keep going, to leave her here with enough food and water and continue the mission. She stepped away from Bellamy's side then, only for a moment, to find Octavia. The younger Blake sibling was sitting halfway up a partially collapsed staircase. Clarke sank onto the steps at her feet and very gently ordered her to take charge of the search party. The girls stared at each other, green eyes begging blue.

"I love him, Clarke," Octavia had whispered as she choked back a fresh wave of tears. "I don't know what I'd do without him."

"He's not dying, Octavia." He wasn't, he was just… not waking up. "He needs time."

"He needs _you_." Clarke bit her lip and nodded. After everything that had happened, there was no sense pretending with her. "Clarke… Just tell him what you told me. Tell him, okay? He won't do it, he's an idiot about this stuff."

After they were all gone, Clarke found an old stepladder and dragged it into the kitchen to use as a chair.

"Octavia says I should tell you how I feel," she began, talking to her patient so she could keep the fear at bay. "But I don't even really know how. I can't figure out where to start. It's all a mess, you know? I've done things, Bellamy. Things I never knew I was capable of, and I just… I would have lost it, I think. I really almost lost it a few times, but you… you were _always_ right there. You kept me going. I'm not sure we would have even met if things had been different. If we were still on the Ark, I mean… But now I can't imagine my life without you. When I was in Mount Weather, Bellamy," she choked on a sob but pressed on, "It was _you_. I fought because I had to get back to you. I've lost…" Clarke's voice broke completely then and she stopped, running her fingers over his brow until she felt ready to continue through her tears, "I've lost so much. I can't lose you, too, not before we've even had a chance. So can't you just wake up now? For me?"

She curled over Bellamy with an exhausted sigh, and let her ear rest briefly on his chest. There it was, his strong steady heartbeat, the sound of her peace. Clarke found his hand, twining her fingers into his, and pressed a light kiss to his chapped lips before sinking against him once more. The rise and fall of his breathing finally lulled her to sleep just as dawn crept over the horizon.


	17. Chapter 17

_**A/N: **My last back-to-back submission for a few days, I'm afraid! Special love for my beta, MarinaBlack1, and my reader, Persepholily, for putting up with my insane schedule. I hope you all enjoy. Please let me know your thoughts. I love you all!_

_**A/N2:** Feel free to consider this the end of the story, if you wish. After this chapter the "M" rating becomes more relevant._

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><p><strong>Night 27<strong>

_Holy fucking shit everything hurts._

Bellamy swore and then opened his eyes, in that order. He tried to sit up but a pounding in his brain kept him down for now. _Okay, fine_. He ran a quick mental check, trying to see how badly he was hurt. After the initial shock of waking up in pain had worn off, he realized he was mostly just sore. He couldn't be sure, but it didn't seem like he had any broken bones.

As his memory caught up with him, he shuddered and called for Clarke. She had to be safe. The Reapers had stopped at him; she should be fine. It would be nice if she'd answer him, though. He tried calling again, and this time his voice was a little stronger. He looked to his left and right for some clue as to where he was, and just as he recalled the old houses dotting this landscape, Clarke appeared in the doorway.

She probably looked terrible. Probably. He could tell she hadn't gotten much sleep, her formerly blue shirt was now a muddy purple color (was it _all_ his blood, or were there others, too?), and her cheeks still carried evidence of recent tears. But all of that was irrelevant because she was unhurt and she gasped and covered her mouth with one hand and she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

"Oh my god, Bellamy, you're awake!" Clarke tossed her pack on the floor as she ran the few feet separating them; he saw a moment of indecision in her eyes before she threw one arm awkwardly over his chest in a half-hug, pressing her face into his neck. "I shouldn't have left, I'm sorry. How long have you been awake?"

"Not long," he rasped. She turned around, grabbing a canteen and helping him take a small drink of water. "What happened? Where are the others?" he asked after a moment.

"They're fine, everyone's fine. I told Octavia they should keep going, and come back for us in a few days."

"Smart."

"Are you okay to sit up?"

"I don't know," he answered honestly. Selfishly, Bellamy was enjoying their current situation: Clarke stood by his shoulder, raking the fingers of one hand through his curls absent-mindedly as her other rested on his chest. For now, this was exactly what he wanted. Mostly.

"I think you should try to sit up," Clarke finally announced. "You need to eat something."

It took longer than it should have, and hurt more than he wanted to admit, but eventually he was upright on the counter, his legs hanging over the side as he watched Clarke mix something together.

"What are you doing?" he asked, suspicious.

"I built a fire in the other room; I was already boiling water anyway, so you'll have soup." She left again; Bellamy licked his dry lips and wondered about Clarke's domestic skills. He had never seen her do any cooking. What if she was terrible at it? Could he pretend to like it? Claim he wasn't hungry? His stomach growled an angry warning against this plan, forcing Bellamy to reach – carefully – for the canteen Clarke had left next to him. Water could fill a belly and trick it for a while, something they had all done at least once or twice on Earth. He managed a few more sips before Clarke returned with an actual bowl in her hands.

"What is that?"

"Soup."

"What's it _in_?" She snorted at him. It felt right to have Clarke reacting to him so naturally.

"This is a kitchen, Bellamy. There's stuff everywhere. Here you go." She turned away as he tried it – maybe her way of letting him hate it if he needed to – which meant she missed his initial surprise at discovering it was delicious.

"It's really good," he admitted. The broth was thin, and very light, and he eagerly drank half of it before setting the bowl down, suddenly incredibly tired.

"Bellamy, you're about to pass out again!"

"I'm fine," he lied. "Just… I might need to lie down." Clarke twisted her lips to one side thoughtfully.

"If I help you, do you think you could walk? I'd rather move you nearer the fire." Bellamy nodded. A warm fire sounded pretty damn good right now, although he was a little nervous about traveling any distance. Clarke was tougher than he gave her credit for though; even when he sagged into her slightly as he landed, dizzy from the exertion, she just grunted in surprise and widened her feet for stability.

It was a slow process. Clarke's arms felt so small at his waist; he tried to use the walls for support as much as possible, to take some of the pressure off her, but by the time they made it across the hall to the crumbling fireplace they were both panting. Bellamy blinked back a wave of fresh pain and sank to the ground in front of the small fire. Clarke pulled a blanket from the pile of supplies the others had left behind, and offered it to him.

"I should check your stitches," Clarke said after they'd both had a few minutes to recover.

"From the way I feel, I assume that could take all night," Bellamy joked. Her smile warmed him more than the fire, but when she crawled forward, her small hands reaching for the edge of his battered t-shirt, Bellamy bit his lips and avoided looking at her. It was the way she perched nearly in his lap, the way her fingers slid over the skin of his stomach and chest as she pushed his shirt out of her way. Trying not to react to her was making his headache even worse.

"It's not like I haven't seen you this way already," she pointed out in response to his obvious tension. She probably intended it as a soothing comment, but Bellamy found himself picturing her touch under very non-medical circumstances. She was making things worse, not better.

"Bellamy? The stitches on your back? I need to get to them," Clarke called him back to reality and he slipped his shirt off, shivering slightly at the cool air on his skin. "I'm sorry, I know it's cold." She sounded hoarse. Bellamy turned carefully toward her, worried now.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I just…" She let her hands drop to her lap. "I think we should talk."

_Fuck._

He was not ready for this. He could barely keep himself upright, and besides – he was still completely disoriented by the recent memory of her touch. Bellamy shook his head.

"Clarke, there's nothing to say. You already told me where you stand." She blinked in surprise at his words, and Bellamy wondered if he'd revealed too much.

"Really? _When?_ Because I feel like you've been avoiding talking to me for a while now." She was clearly upset, which for some reason he found truly irritating.

"I'm not avoiding talking to you!" For a moment, the physical pain subsided as he gave voice to his frustration. "I've been _trying_ to give you space!"

"But I don't _want_ space!"

"You think that, but you're _wrong!_"

"Don't tell me how I feel, Bellamy! You're the one who's all twisted up with guilt about… _everything_… and can't let any of it go!" He looked up at the ceiling, at thick spider webs covering an intricate lacework of cracks and fallen plaster, and tried to piece together what she meant by that.

"Clarke, you said your relationship with Finn was a mistake, and I don't... that isn't what I… Shit. I'm not doing this right." He wanted to tell her the truth, that he'd fallen for her so long ago he couldn't even remember how it started, but he didn't want to scare her. He looked over and saw his own uncertainty mirrored in her eyes.

"Hey, stop." She crawled forward again, settling herself cross-legged in front of him. "Just…" She reached for him, and he didn't try to fight her, he just leaned into a kiss that was simple, soft, chaste. He almost hated it, only because he wanted so much more. He moaned her name without meaning to, and she pulled back then, obviously pleased with herself.

"I already told you, I don't want space. Not from you."

"And I don't want to be your next mistake," he confessed before thought could interfere. Clarke sat back heavily at that, a surprised look on her face. She stared at him like he was a puzzle she needed to solve, and when she spoke, her words came out slowly at first.

"We were all so lost when we first landed, Bellamy. You did stupid things too, trying to hide from who you were just like the rest of us. Admit it."

He shrugged. Probably true. Okay, yes. Fuck. True.

"But that was then," she continued. "We're all different now. And I know you, Bellamy. I _know_you! Better than I know anyone, maybe." As she spoke, her cheeks colored and she leaned toward him. "I know you love Octavia more than your own life. I know you were afraid of caring about all of us but now you can't stop, and that frightens you, too. You remember each and every death, and you carry those losses with you everywhere you go. I also know you don't like to drink Monty's moonshine, because you hate the loss of control. You lick your lips when you're nervous – especially right before a speech – but once you start speaking, you could move armies… And I know you're scared your mother wouldn't be proud of you, but Bellamy, she would be, believe me she _would_ be, because I also know you're a good person. Really _good_. You've given up everything for all of us, over and over again, and I know how much it hurts you when people misinterpret that." Clarke was crying openly now. She stopped to give her wet face a hurried swipe, and Bellamy tried to process everything she had just shared. Before he could formulate a response, she added one last sentence, in a pained whisper. "I know you slept with Raven, and that you kind of hate yourself for it."

"Clarke – "

"No, it doesn't even matter now. She was pissed off, she thought Finn and I were…" She let the thought fade.

"I was pissed at you, too," he admitted.

Clarke looked up, surprised. "What?"

"I _hated _Finn for being the one you chose. I was pissed off, even back then." It actually felt good to say out loud. "Honestly, it still makes me angry sometimes."

"Well, that seems pointless." Clarke wiped her face clean and inhaled deeply, and offered a slightly shaky smile. "That's the past, and we can't change it, right? So just... be here. With me."

His head hurt, his chest hurt, his throat constricted painfully. Bellamy would have dragged her into his arms if he could; he would have made love to her until they both had nothing left to give. But he was still too weak, and the most he could do was reach for her, let her curl into his lap, and bend forward in search of another kiss.

Just before her mouth parted for him, Bellamy whispered, "I know you too, you know." He let her kiss him the way she had that first night, long and searching, because it was mind-numbingly good to feel her pressed into him and because she tasted too incredible to let go. Eventually rational thought returned though, and he pulled back with a grin. "I know you don't like boar meat." She laughed. "Your forehead wrinkles when you're upset. Right _here_," and he pointed to the spot, between her eyebrows and just above her nose. "Your favorite color is blue, and I'm pretty sure you don't even know _how_ to back down from a fight." His thumb brushed across her lips. He could have told her how he'd memorized everything about her face, from her sharp dimpled chin to her mole to her bright sincere eyes, but he didn't. "You'll make a great doctor, I know that, but you're already a damn good leader. Better than your mom, actually." She frowned then, and he bent to kiss away that telltale furrow between her eyebrows before lowering his voice. "You're still mad at her for what happened with your dad, but you're not quite sure if you're allowed to be." Bellamy found her hand and curled his fingers into hers. "I know you're scared of losing your humanity down here. But you definitely don't need to worry about that." His free hand tangled into her hair; he kissed her throat, her collarbone. She flinched slightly, and he grinned. "And _now_ I know you're ticklish," he murmured against the bare skin of her shoulder, where it was exposed by her open collar. She sighed happily and her head fell back against his hand as he explored flesh he'd only dreamt about until now; he could feel his body responding, blood rushing through his veins, pushing him to ignore the pain just a little longer…

"Well, you're still my patient," Clarke finally managed, "And _I _know you need to rest." Bellamy groaned but pulled back, aware of just how true it was.

"Clarke… don't leave, okay?" Murphy had been right. There was no way Bellamy could sleep without her. She watched as he stretched out gingerly on the floor, then molded herself against his side, taking care to avoid his injuries.

"I know," she whispered simply. "I can't do it, either." Bellamy's hand rested at the curve of her back. He closed his eyes as she pulled the blanket over them both, and let his exhaustion mingle with this new, unexpected contentment. He was almost asleep when Clarke poked him lightly in the ribs. "I _do_ like this no-shirt thing of yours, though. That's a habit I could get used to." He chuckled and craned his neck to plant a tired kiss on the crown of her head.

"Good night, Clarke."

"Good night, Bellamy."


	18. Chapter 18

_**A/N:** This chapter is the beginning of the "M" rating for this story. Please do not read if you are uncomfortable with an "M" rating. **Feel free to consider the story finished at Night 27.**  
><em>

_**A/N2: **My beta MarinaBlack1 and my reader Persepholily are awesome women deserving of EVERY good thing that could happen to a human. They have been my rocks through a VERY tough period of grad school/working/parenting and I just owe them SO much._

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><p><strong>Night 28<strong>

Bellamy finished his last circuit of the room and turned toward the door, a bit winded by the exercise but trying to hide it.

"Clarke?" He leaned into the hallway, searching for her.

The world felt different now: safer, friendlier, less bleak. Clarke's smile had snuck into every shadowy corner of his life, and Bellamy barely recognized himself. He had spent most of the day wrapped in her, resenting every necessary departure but loving each quick return enough to make up for it. The violent world outside was perfectly welcome to rip itself apart, as far as he was concerned; Clarke was here, his own personal sun, and with every soft sigh and lingering kiss she pulled him further out of himself.

If it weren't for a small window in one corner of the room, time would have easily become irrelevant. There was nothing to worry about right now but regaining his strength, a worthwhile goal - with a potential reward he found _highly_ motivating.

It was all Clarke's fault. She had started as soon as they woke up, stretching the sleep out of her joints with a tiny little moaning sound he had heard from her before but had never realized was so overtly _sexual_. Or maybe it was just the way she straddled him immediately after, bending forward for a kiss while her blonde hair fell like a curtain around them and turned a gentle greeting into an intensely intimate moment.

She had not stopped since. Bellamy grinned as he waited for her to return, recalling the heat of her fingers tracing longingly against his bare stomach and hips when she'd helped him stand. He was glad she had not gone further then; he was absolutely certain if she had kept up that hot groping, he would have lost his self-control and taken her against the wall right there, fuck the stitches… but somehow she seemed able to gauge the line between driving him nearly to distraction, and pushing him completely over the edge.

"Clarke, where are you?" Bellamy was growing impatient just thinking about the day they'd already shared. He wanted her back. He needed her, in a way that was physically painful and could only be healed with her presence.

"Bellamy, are you sure you should be up and moving around?" Clarke asked, peeking out at him from down the hall. He grinned and limped toward her, waiting to answer until after he'd pressed her against the door and dropped his mouth to the smooth ivory skin of her throat. She gripped at his shoulders, arching her body into him with such force he bit his own lip painfully, groaning at the friction of her hips sliding against his.

"Shit Clarke, that's not a good idea..."

"You're the one walking around when you should be resting," she answered, and it was like a direct challenge, the way she rubbed her breasts along his bare chest as she stretched up to his lips...

Bellamy felt blinding white heat pour over his brain again, and was only vaguely aware of the door-frame supporting him as he clawed at Clarke's shirt, desperate for access to her skin.

"You're not strong enough yet," she finally panted, and the part of Bellamy that was still an asshole actually snarled at her, but the rest of Bellamy managed to hide the angry response.

"I'm feeling much better."

"I'll be the judge of that," Clarke whispered, kissing at the bare flesh over his heart. Damn, he loved when she did that. "Now, go away. I just finished heating all this water, and I'm going to take a bath." She gestured to an ancient tub taking up most of the space in the tiny room behind her.

"Sure you don't need help?" It was a long shot, but he had to try. Clarke grinned and shook her head.

"Maybe next time," she whispered, and she sounded as hungry as he felt.

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><p><strong>Night 29<strong>

Clarke stood by the fireplace, wrapped in their blanket taunting him. The dancing flames gave her features extra life as she bit her lower lip and watched him try - and fail - to maintain a calm demeanor.

"Dammit. You'd better be naked under there," Bellamy finally rasped. Today had been, if possible, worse than yesterday. He was even more mobile now, and one of the first things he'd done was take an extremely careful bath, following Clarke's order to avoid his many stitches. When he'd gotten back to the main room, cleaner and ready to settle in for another day of her body wrapped around his, he'd instead found her half-naked, wringing out her just-washed shirt and hanging it up to dry by the fire.

"You can wear mine for now." His words were a strangled warning but instead of taking the hint she had turned toward him. Her nipples pressed temptingly against the black fabric of her bra and Bellamy couldn't even remember how he'd crossed to her. His hands cupped her round breasts, thumbs sliding across the thin material; she purred, an exquisite sound, and tangled her hands into his hair, dragging his lips against her own with an urgency he hadn't expected. They crashed heavily into the dusty wall, where Bellamy finally released the clasp at her back, swearing in a low hoarse voice as he bent to her breasts, aching for her in new ways he had not thought possible. Clarke had managed to undo his belt and the top button of his pants before something went wrong with the stitches along his left side. He wasn't fast enough to hide it either, or he would have kept going even through the stinging pain. But Clarke knew instantly. She froze.

"What just happened?"

"Nothing. I'm fine." She huffed at his obvious lie and turned him slightly in order to get a better view.

"Dammit Bellamy, you have to tell me when something hurts! The skin needs time to heal the right way."

That had been the morning. The rest of the day he was forced to take it easy, as per his frustratingly tempting doctor's orders.

And now Clarke was standing at the edge of the fire, draped in the blanket. A coy smile danced at the edges of her lips; Bellamy felt as though flames were pouring over his skin.

"I'm serious. _Naked_."

"You're hardly in a position to be making demands," she pointed out, narrowing her eyes at him in challenge. "You really _should_ rest."

"Clarke…" It was a growl, but an empty threat. Honestly, he had nothing to hold against her – although at this point it hardly mattered anyway, because Bellamy was already imagining her body, naked underneath those layers of fabric, and –

He strangled on his own thoughts as she let the blanket fall.

She was exquisite. He needed to hold her. No; he needed to consume her, to fill her and make her his and show her she already owned him, a hundred times over. The heat of that need propelled him off the floor to her side. He shed the last of his own clothes as he moved, eager to touch her, mad with the anticipation of holding her. She laughed with pleasure when he pulled her down onto the blanket; when his eager hands explored her sensitive skin as if to memorize every curve and dip, she gasped. And when his ravenous mouth kissed a meandering trail down her body, unable to imagine a taste sweeter than her, Clarke tangled her fingers into his dark curls and called his name in a throaty voice that exploded inside his brain.

Bellamy loved watching Clarke's reaction to his touch, the way her breath shuddered slightly as he caressed her, the way she panted at each new moment of bliss. He tried to focus on her pleasure as long as possible, tried to maintain some semblance of selflessness, but when her body arched suddenly under his hands and she moaned his name as though only he could save her, rational thought disappeared. Bellamy bit down hard on his lip when he entered her; she felt so much better than he had anticipated, warm and welcoming and despite himself he gasped, and swore, and at that Clarke opened her eyes and grinned up at him.

"Hi," she whispered. Something about the way she said it was like a confession, an admission of how much he meant to her. Bellamy bent to capture her lips with his own. He felt his world melting at the edges when her tongue slid between his teeth; when she wrapped her legs around his hips, dragging him closer, deeper, and her own need for him came as a soft whimper on her hot sweet breath, Bellamy's world collapsed in on itself. He managed to cling to control only until he felt her tense around him, felt her whole body writhe and shiver and heard his name ripped from her lungs on a single long, ecstatic breath, and then Bellamy let go and crashed through all his own pent up guilt and fear and anger in one hot, bright-white moment of impossible bliss.


	19. Chapter 19

_**A/N: **HAPPY BIRTHDAY MARINA! In order to give my girl the night off on her special day, I asked Persepholily to step in as temporary Beta for this chapter, and I think you'll agree she did an admirable job!_

_**A/N2: **... I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I simply CANNOT keep up with the reviews. **I'm so sorry!** I just... I feel SO damn terrible about it, because you all take the time to leave me these incredibly thoughtful responses, and I'm being a horrid little writer. But I can barely even get chapters posted these days, so I'm just doing my best to focus on getting that done. PLEASE accept my apologies, and know that I do actually read (and sometimes cry) over each and every comment. **You are my greatest Muses, my darlings.**_

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><p><strong>Night 30<strong>

He should have known it had been too easy. He should have considered how good Clarke was, in fact, at fooling the world into believing she was okay. She had done it too well – and fooled even herself. Bellamy held her now as she sobbed through an impenetrable nightmare, his heart shattering anew with each choked, whispered "no".

"Clarke," he tried again, despite the futility of his previous efforts, "Clarke, wake up, come on." He smoothed a few stray hairs from her pale pained face and looked around the empty room, at this moment keenly aware of just how alone they were. "Please Clarke."

He begged her, he kissed her whimpering lips and warm cheeks, he wrapped her in his arms in a mad attempt to put himself between her and whatever horrors she was facing. None of it made any difference and the inability to protect her was an ice-cold stab in his gut.

Eventually she jerked herself awake, and in the temporary insanity of his relief, he dragged her close and yelled at her never to scare him like that again. Which was a selfish reaction, yes, but the way she had refused to wake up for him...

"It was _you_," she whispered, still shaking. Her face was hidden to him – buried against his neck. He was tempted to pull away, only so he could see her more clearly. "Lexa had you, Bellamy. And I had to choose, to save everyone – or…" Her arms slipped tightly around his waist. She seemed determined not to let go and he was fine with that. The real world had given them this space, a few days of peace in which to find each other; but the others would return soon, and they would all have to go back to fighting for every inch of freedom. By the dim light of the fire's red embers, Bellamy let his chin rest on Clarke's head and inhaled the smell of her.

So she was not quite as whole as she had let him believe. Well. Maybe he wasn't, either. After all, every time he lost sight of her in this crumbling house he felt a surge of panic-laced adrenaline, as though his own body did not really believe they could be granted this much happiness.

"It was a dream. That's all," he murmured. He wanted it to be true. She had already been through so much. He had only seen strength like hers once before, in Aurora, but now… now, Clarke had earned the right to be soft for a while. So he held her as her tears slowed and faded. He didn't tell her she was rubbing painfully against the wound on his left side; he said nothing when his right leg started to go numb; and he didn't mention the very real possibility that either one of them might, at some point, be forced to save the group at the sacrifice of the other. Clarke already knew that better than anyone, anyway.

"Let's go," Bellamy finally interrupted himself. "I have an idea." He kept her tucked firmly against his side as he coaxed the fire back to life, heated water, and slowly filled the white bathtub down the hall. When he settled her against the edge of the tub and she let him undress her without protest, that's when he understood just how much the nightmare had gotten to her. Bellamy frowned and squatted by her knee, so she was forced to see his face.

"This time I'm joining you." His voice carried all the authority he had avoided around her for so long; it got Clarke's attention. She raised one eyebrow, their personal shorthand for "Now _that_ I'd like to see," and Bellamy raised his own eyebrows in silent teasing response. He stripped and slid into the water – a couple degrees above comfortable, just enough to elicit a quick whispered curse – then grabbed Clarke by the waist and dragged her in.

It didn't take long to acclimate to the heat. Soon the steam and warmth had relaxed them both, and Clarke lay against his chest, her fingers running idly across his knee as Bellamy told stories. He was good at stories. On the Ark, he used to make up new ones all the time for Octavia: weaving daring adventure through green jungle forests, sending her soaring over deserts on eagle wings, plunging her deep into blue oceans that exploded with colorful fish and dangerous sea monsters.

For Clarke he made up a different story completely. He told her about a boy named… Augustus. As a child, Augustus wanted to join the army. He watched the soldiers in his hometown, and loved their strength and their stories of heroic deeds. As soon as he was old enough Augustus went to war, only to discover it was not glory and honor, it was dirt and fear and becoming close friends with your basest self. Eventually Augustus had enough. He stopped fighting and went home, thinking he could spend time with his family – but they were all gone, and as he stood in the middle of his empty home he understood he would be alone forever. And the knowledge ate away at him, turning him bitter… until the day he saw a woman walking down the road toward his house. She had long hair brighter than the sun, a mouth like an archer's bow, and eyes like the sea - and she moved as though she owned the world. He fell in love the moment she asked his name, although he was an idiot and tried to hide his feelings from her.

"Bellamy," Clarke suddenly interrupted. "You could have made her look different, at least." She craned her head back, searching for his eyes.

"Why?" Bellamy ran one finger along the line of her jaw, distracted by her dimple, her upside-down smile, her cute little mole.

"… I don't know; so it's not so obvious?" she answered with a snort. He was relieved to see her feeling better, and he curled down to meet her lips. He wanted to claim them somehow, make sure everyone knew they were actually _his_. Only his.

"…What if I'm tired of being subtle?" he murmured into her cheek.

"I think you need to be careful with the rest of your story, then," Clarke teased. Bellamy wrapped his arms around her, cradling her tighter against his chest as he described a simple happy life: a warm house – _with a bathtub_, Clarke interrupted – and children, and no more war or death to haunt Augustus and his beautiful, strong wife.

* * *

><p><strong>Night 31<strong>

They'd fought this evening. That was new. Well, not new exactly, but _different _now that there was this other part to their relationship, the potential to hurt each other more. They had both been unaware of how it would change things between them – until they were already in the midst of the argument and one of them said something and the other misinterpreted it and suddenly the conversation wasn't about what to do when the others returned, it was about feelings and some latent jealousy, and that was when Clarke had very wisely, if tensely, suggested they take a little time to cool off.

Eventually he found her in the bathroom, still pacing.

"I shouldn't have said it," he began. "It was… I was being dumb." Bellamy cringed. He should find some time to practice apologies. He had never really found them useful before now.

"I am _not_ my mother," Clarke clarified, chest still heaving at the memory of the fight.

"I never said you were," Bellamy pointed out, suddenly confused.

"What she did to my father, that wasn't out of love, that was cowardice!" _Whoa. What the hell?_

"Clarke, I just meant you're lucky to still have a parent at all," he tried. "I don't see why you…" But he did. He did see, and his stomach dropped with the understanding that she saw it, too. She had spent long enough hating Abby; what did it say about Clarke if, at the end of the day, they were same person?

Bellamy crossed to her and wrapped her in his arms, halting her obsessive movement. He waited until she managed to relax a little before speaking again, although she still vibrated with feverish energy.

"You did the right thing. You did the _good_ thing. Okay? Abby isn't a bad person, but Clarke, she can't hold a candle to you." He stopped there, waiting for her to finish processing whatever she needed to process.

Eventually Clarke nodded, accepting his explanation. "I'm sorry about your mother," she admitted. "It must have been hard on you to lose her and Octavia all at once like that." Bellamy nodded. He hadn't meant to talk about all this.

… But if not her, then who? It was pointless to pretend she didn't already own his soul, anyway.

"Yes, it was," he stated. That seemed to him like a pretty huge confession, but Clarke was staring at him expectantly. "I was angry at everyone for a while... Then just at the Council, and the chancellor." He could feel his throat thickening, his jaw tightening as he fought back against his demons. There was another anger, too, far more personal - but she didn't need that extra burden right now.

"I guess you're still angry at them."

"Yeah. I guess I still am." He swallowed hard. "In a place like Seventeen, everyone knows everyone else. But with Octavia… you know, protecting her wasn't just about a hole in the floor. We had to think about rumors and gossip, too. All the time. I couldn't exactly invite friends over to play, and eventually the friends just stopped asking. So the three of us were closer than most families, I guess… until I fucked up – " Bellamy stopped, shook his head at having said too much, and hoped she hadn't caught on.

She seemed preoccupied enough to have missed it. He dragged himself out of that miserable space and focused on Clarke instead. On her damn tempting mouth. Her bright searching eyes. The way she curved so deliciously against him, warming his skin and, as she stretched up to kiss him, temporarily dulling the pain floating through his blood.

Bellamy started slowly, his hands tracing the curve of her hips, the dip at her waist, the flare of her ribcage; she flinched and laughed against his mouth when his fingers traveled quickly along the sensitive underside of her arms, and he tsked at her in annoyance, grabbing her elbows lightly and pushing them up, up, until her arms were above her head and he stepped forward, his knee pressing between Clarke's legs. She backed up out of necessity, one step, two, until the cool smooth tile wall stopped her. Bellamy grabbed both her wrists in one hand, still tortuously slow, enjoying this sensation of the hunt, listening carefully to her small moans and whimpers for any sign of discomfort. He caught a sudden sharp intake of breath when his free hand slipped to the waist of her pants, undoing the button; he pulled the zipper low with the same deliberate pace he kissed down her throat, letting his fingers wander and tease.

"…_Bellamy_…"

It really was unfair. The way she moaned his name – it was her tiny way of cheating. He dropped her hands, thinking now only of the hunger in her voice, clawing at her clothes and cursing them for hiding her from him. His brain tried desperately to keep his body in check… but as his mouth reached the soft tempting rise of her breast, and he slipped her pants past her hips, he knew it was already too late.

She pushed back, and he could tell there was more than just urgency in her actions as he banged heavily into the opposite wall. There was frustration layered over fear and pain and at the heart of it all, resentment and anger. A nibble on his lip that actually hurt slightly; fingernails down his shoulders that left livid lines in their wake; her satisfied grunt when she heard him hiss in pain as she tugged on his hair...

Bellamy probably should have stopped. Part of him tried, sort of, to be the better man. It asked why she was angry, it wanted to know if letting _this_ happen _this _way was really healthy. The rest of Bellamy told that little part to shut up shut up shut up shut the _fuck_ up because healthy or not, at this moment he could meet her here, in this darker space. He had plenty of his own guilty ghosts to slay – maybe they could find some way to help each other do just that.


	20. Chapter 20

_**A/N:** I know I took WAY too long to update! I am so very sorry. Real life. UGH. BUT my big news is... I found out I'm eligible for degree completion as of MARCH! Ladies (and that one dude secretly reading my stuff, if he's out there somewhere), this is HUGE. This is three years of misery, suddenly OVER. And I'll have an "MS" at both ends of my name, thank you very much! _

_**A/N2:** Please give a big hug to MarinaBlack1, who gave me the world's FASTEST turnaround on notes for this chapter. Also, I dedicate this chapter (this whole piece, really) to my PantsKru sisters - you know who you are. I love you ladies._

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><p><strong>Night 32<strong>

The front door burst open, and the echo as it crashed against the wall startled Bellamy awake. He struggled toward coherent thought, trying to figure out if the sounds were friend or foe.

"Bell? Bellamy!" Octavia called. _Shit._ He'd almost have preferred Reapers. He looked down at Clarke, naked, asleep in his arms, and tried to reach for his clothes without disturbing her. He had just slipped his pants on when the door to their makeshift bedroom creaked open and Octavia peeked in nervously. Bellamy stepped smoothly between her and Clarke, still lying on the floor and wrapped modestly in the blanket.

"Dammit, O, who raised you, anyway? Clarke's asleep!" He hoped his glare and the gentle teasing would be enough of a distraction to keep Octavia from asking too many questions.

"I'm so glad you're okay!" Octavia leaped forward for a thrilled hug. Bellamy complied, then dragged her out of the room as quickly as he could and shut the door behind them.

"Bellamy, we found Agro Station," Octavia began, her smile bright now that she was reunited with her brother.

"How many?" he asked. The heavy tramp of tired footsteps floated up to him from just beyond the front door. People entered, led by Miller and Lincoln; Bellamy directed them toward the kitchen as Octavia filled in the details.

"Only about a hundred survived the landing, apparently. But they were attacked by a tribe of nomads within a few days of arrival, and since no guards or weapons were on Agro…" Octavia stopped.

"How many are left, O?"

"Two dozen, maybe a bit more."

"My god." He ran one hand through his hair, disturbed at the news.

"Does anyone need medical attention?" Clarke asked, her voice thick with sleep. Bellamy and Octavia whirled around to find her just behind them, watching the influx of refugees.

"No, the survivors are fine. Agro station, lots of medicinal plants, you know."

"Right. Well, they can't possibly all sleep in the kitchen. Let's put some people in here, too," Clarke commanded as she gestured toward _their_ room. Bellamy's nostrils flared. She was inviting people into a space he considered private, and it bothered him. She was right; he still hated it. He swallowed and looked away.

"You heard Clarke, let's set up some blankets across the hall. We can probably fit most of the people in there," he pointed out, gesturing to Miller as he spoke.

When everyone had a place for the night – Bellamy's earlier selfishness disappeared at the discovery of two families huddled in the bathroom, the young children asleep in the bathtub – he gathered his own people together at the staircase for an update.

"Wait, _we_ don't get to rest?" Murphy groused. "That's bullshit, Bellamy, and you know it."

"You've earned a good night's sleep, Murphy," Bellamy assured him. "But I need five more minutes, okay?"

Octavia tilted her head at him. He matched her movement.

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to Murphy," she pointed out.

"Look, everyone's tired, let's just get this over with," Clarke interrupted, stepping to Bellamy's side.

It was Miller who answered. "I think Octavia covered most of it when we arrived, though. It took us four days to find them. Monty figured out a way to modify the radio so it was… I don't really know exactly. I just know we used it to track electric signals?"

Bellamy frowned and nodded thoughtfully at Monty. "Like a homing beacon," he murmured. "Good idea." Monty nodded back silently, but did not elaborate, for which Bellamy was grateful. Nobody had the energy for a long technical explanation right now.

"Yeah, but then when we _got_ there, it was fucking chaos," Murphy piped up. "Nobody had been able to organize anything after that attack. It was just… a mess." He sank into silence, staring at his hands for a moment before looking up toward Bellamy and Clarke. "That could have been us. That _would_ have been us, without you two."

Bellamy couldn't help glancing at Clarke; she smiled softly back at him. Why the hell Murphy's opinion mattered, Bellamy would never understand; but it did. It was as though one layer of heavy guilt had just been stripped from his shoulders.

"Thanks, John." The two men shared a quick nod, just enough to establish a new, deeper mutual respect.

"Okay seriously," Octavia said. "What the hell is going on? Why are you being so nice all of the sudden?"

"I don't know what you mean," Bellamy answered levelly, refusing to look at her. He turned to Monty instead.

"Agro Station. So your parents –" but there was no need to continue.

"They died in the battle with the nomads," Monty answered, his face as carefully neutral as his voice. Clarke gasped.

"Monty, I'm so sorry," she choked, grabbing his hand. She pulled him into a hug and suddenly Monty wasn't as stoic as he'd been acting. Suddenly Monty was a little boy who'd abruptly lost his mom and dad, whose world had collapsed under him without warning. Bellamy's heart broke for the young man. He knew that pain all too well. And when Clarke looked up at him tearfully, he knew she was feeling her friend's loss just as personally as Bellamy was.

* * *

><p>With everyone finally settled, Bellamy took one last trip through the functioning rooms of the house, checking on this newest batch of people under his care. Twenty-seven souls. The children burned at him most, especially the three little ones who had been orphaned as a result of the nomad attack. They had watched the activity around them with a kind of glassy stare that haunted Bellamy as he stepped out onto the battered and crooked front porch, searching for Clarke. She was sitting on the edge, huddled under a spare blanket, legs dangling. He sank next to her and together they stared out over the valley, a deep well of shadows and mystery. The air smelled different tonight. Cleaner. Crisper. Cold, of course, but they had already gotten used to the way their breath rose up in little white clouds on every exhale.<p>

"Did you see the children?" she asked him eventually. She shuddered. "They shouldn't have to live with all this. It's wrong."

"We don't get to pick the world we're handed, Clarke," Bellamy tried. It sounded good. He hated it.

"But we can pick how we react to it," she pointed out. He plucked her hand from her lap as he thought about that. A few months ago, he would have said it was an impossible dream. He would have told her the only thing that mattered was survival. And survival meant doing whatever needed to be done, even if they didn't think they could live with the aftermath. But now… Now things were different. _He _was different. So was she.

"I don't want to go back to Camp Jaha," he announced. He'd been holding on to the thought for a while, and been afraid to tell her, but maybe she was right. Maybe they could choose their own path now.

"I know," she said with a tiny sob. That surprised him.

"Clarke, I didn't mean… I wouldn't leave without _you_," he tried. "If you want to go back, we'll go."

"No, you don't understand. I don't want to go back either."

"Oh." He puzzled over that sentence as he traced her name into the palm of her hand, over and over again. "So, why are you…?"

"Not about that," she assured him. "For Monty, and those children. And everyone else who's lost someone they love."

"Clarke…" He reached for her chin, and turned her gently toward him. "It's over. It's all over. Lexa and the Alliance, Mount Weather, the Reapers… It's over. It's just us, Clarke. And you're right. We get to choose what happens next."

Somehow he must have found the right thing to say. She sighed, a shaky little sigh that hinted at more tears waiting below the surface. But she also smiled, stretched up, and kissed him. Bellamy felt his body react traitorously to her touch. How was it possible she could do this to him so consistently? He pulled her close, leaning back at the same time and dragging her onto his chest until she was straddling him, the blanket covering them both. Clarke's nose and cheeks were cold, but her lips and fingers were not.

"Clarke… About us."

"Mm-hm?"

"Are we… do you want people to know?" He wasn't sure how he hoped she'd answer. There was part of him that ached to share this joy with anyone who would listen. And then there was the part of him that had never had anything beautiful and nice before, and jealously wanted to guard her close, for fear someone would take her from him.

"Hm. I hadn't thought about it," Clarke answered, but she sounded distracted. She ducked beneath the blanket, pushed his shirt up and away, and Bellamy frowned. A moment ago she'd been in tears…

– but then her warm mouth pressed lightly against his ribs, teased across his stomach, and nibbled at his hip. Bellamy sank into a dark, warm, animal place, a place where he was not in control; he growled out her name as she tugged at the fly of his pants and he closed his eyes and banged his head, hard, against the wooden boards of the porch –

"Are you _fucking_ kidding me."

The cold night air was nothing compared to the ice shooting through Bellamy's veins at the sound of that amused voice. He felt Clarke stiffen against his side.

"O?" Damn, even his own voice sounded guilty.

"Well, I'd tell you to get a room, but I guess that's part of the problem, isn't it?" Octavia sounded practically smug now. Bellamy refused to open his eyes. He tried to will her into nonexistence. Sixteen fucking years he'd lived with her in a tiny soup can of a room, he knew how to pretend she wasn't there…

"Bellamy, I'm not going away."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because there's nowhere else for _me_ to go, either. And because I want to see the look on Clarke's face right now." Bellamy could name twelve things he never wanted to see. The look on Clarke's face right now was about seven of them.

"O, don't be an asshole." There was a beat of silence as Octavia considered her options.

"Well, I guess I _am_ feeling a little thirsty. Wait here; I'll be right back." Bellamy heaved a relieved sigh as her footsteps receded into the house. Clarke still hadn't moved, and he was starting to get worried. He sat up, pulling her with him, and tried not to grin at the horrified look on her face.

"Clarke, it'll be fine," he said, settling her firmly in his lap and wrapping the blanket more tightly around both of them.

"I guess we have the answer to your question about who should know," she whispered into his neck. It felt like she was trying to shrink into his chest completely. Bellamy laughed, but sobered quickly.

"Let me deal with her," he murmured just as the youngest Blake returned. Clarke nodded.

"I knew you were being too nice to Murphy," Octavia accused instantly, sitting on the edge of the porch a few feet from them, staring at her brother.

"How is that – "

"Because you're _happy_." And suddenly Octavia was crying. Bellamy stared at her, then down at Clarke, frustrated and confused. "Bell, this is good. This is _so_ good." Bellamy stiffened, wondering where Octavia was going with that comment. She wasn't used to watching her words around him, and he suspected –

"I've been waiting for you to fall in love for_ever_," Octavia continued. "I know you never had a chance at all that, on the Ark. And I've always felt kind of responsible – "

"No, Octavia, that wasn't your – "

"No, just stop talking and listen. I've always felt like you missed out on too much because of me, and I want you to know that I _don't_ think Clarke deserves better than you. I know you think that, but you're wrong. _She's_ the lucky one, big brother. And Clarke?" She swiped at her face while she waited for Clarke to answer.

"Octavia, I'm – "

"Save it. Here's all you need to know. He's been in love with you a _lot_ longer than whatever he's told you. He's suffered enough, okay? For me, _and_ for you. So if you hurt him, I will hunt you down, and I will kill you. I swear to you I will."

* * *

><p>Somehow Lincoln appeared to drag Octavia away. Bellamy and Clarke were left alone on the porch again, both silent, both trying to figure out how to digest what Octavia had said.<p>

"Clarke, I – "

"She'd probably really kill me, too." Bellamy bit back a smile, but Clarke's eyes were dancing with humor. He nodded.

"Probably. She's very protective."

"So, my hands are tied then. No hurting you."

"Sounds like a good plan."

"And what she said, about your life on the Ark… I mean, I knew because you've told me, but hearing it from her…"

"That changes things for you?" Bellamy felt a little knot form in his chest, just behind his heart. A dark cold knot of dread. Clarke looked at him thoughtfully, her hands wrapping gently around the back of his neck.

"A bit. It makes more sense now."

"What does?" This was the danger in opening one's heart, then. The constant fear of rejection. This was torture.

"_You_ do. The way you care so much and are so terrible at handling it." But as she said it, she placed a gentle kiss at the corner of his mouth, and he felt his escalating heart rate begin to settle.

"Excuse me? You're just as bad," he tried to joke; she just kept going, as if she had some mission to complete.

"We're talking about you right now. And Bellamy, you need to let go." He didn't respond, just watched her, unsure what she was trying to say. "Whatever mistakes you _think_ you made, it's okay. It's over. We did what we had to do, and now we'll do what we choose to do." Clarke sighed heavily. "We have to let go of this guilt that's drowning us both."

"I don't think I can yet," Bellamy finally managed, although the words felt thick, like mud in his throat. "Clarke, some of it needs time."

"...Time. Okay." She sank against his chest again, and he pulled her close, letting the weight of her, the smell of her, the goodness of her fill him with a warmth that fought back all the chill of the night air.

"Bellamy?"

"Hm?"

"I… I love you, too."


	21. Chapter 21

_**A/N:** You have all been SO patient. TOO patient. I am sorry. Mea culpa. Mea culpa. I am doing my best to keep the real world from leaving me in the dust, and - frankly - I hit writer's block on this piece. It SUCKED, because I already know how this ends (there are only a few chapters left) but couldn't get the words to come out right. And I just... love this piece too much to let myself post a shitty chapter. Anyway, I hope this small update meets with your approval, and please know I am already working on the next chapter!_

_**A/N2:** I am the luckiest lady EVER. My internet wife is my beta, and she's the kick-ass-est at both those things: **MarinaBlack1**! Also, **Persepholily** has been serving as a reader from the get-go but now we've also managed to sucker **lucawindmover** into it, too! WHAT! (Seriously. These women are each AMAZING writers with beautiful, unique voices and I feel HONORED every time they are willing to read something I write. Good god.)_

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><p><strong>Night 33<strong>

Lincoln had warned against a departure today, staring at the grey morning clouds so pregnant with snow they seemed to drag painfully over the bare treetops… but Clarke and Bellamy had shared one look and shaken their heads. They couldn't possibly feed everyone for another day, and they'd been gone from Camp long enough. At the very least, they needed to get close enough for Monty's reconstituted radio to pick up Raven and Wick's transmissions so reinforcements could be ordered.

With Lincoln and Octavia at the head, the displaced residents of Agro station had abandoned the relative safety of the house just before mid-day. Clarke and Bellamy stayed toward the back, along with Monty and the three parentless children who seemed to have latched onto him at some point. Monty kept up a stream of light, friendly chatter with the children, even though they rarely responded. Bellamy had never considered Monty in the role of protector, but he seemed good at it, so Bellamy opted not to intervene. By the time they stopped for the night – too soon, and too far from Camp for Clarke's liking but Bellamy had insisted – the children were actually communicating in fits and spurts.

"Because, buddy, Bellamy and Clarke are our leaders," he corrected one of the children who had asked why Bellamy kept shouting at people.

"Like the Chancellor," the oldest child, a seven-year-old named Mari, finally said.

"Well kind of, but Dr. Griffin is the Chancellor," Monty tried with a frown. "The Chancellor's in charge of Camp Jaha. Clarke and Bellamy… well, they take care of the rest of us."

Now the whole recovery party had sheltered inside a nearby mining tunnel, clustered in groups of three or four under the thin blankets, superficially out of a desire for physical warmth but also, obviously, about so much more than that. Bellamy moved restlessly down the center of the tunnel, checking in on people. He tripped over an extended leg in the poor light, cursing as he went down hard. He managed to shield his face just before hitting the unforgiving stone of the tunnel floor, but could feel a quick hard bite in the palms of his hands. Damn, that would hurt tomorrow.

"Bellamy?" Monty, the owner of that treacherous leg, sounded surprised by Bellamy's presence. "What's going on?"

"Just doing the rounds. You good?"

"Yeah, we're fine, thanks." And that's when Bellamy spotted them, the three parentless children. They were draped over Monty like puppies, half-asleep but not quite, and Bellamy's bruised, wrung-out heart still managed to break afresh for them.

_This_ was Monty's family now. It should have been obvious earlier, really. When the group was pushing to stay ahead of the snow. When Monty, a child on his back and another gripping tight to his free hand, had asked Clarke to help with the littlest. Her name was Alma, and she was unnaturally quiet for a toddler. Bellamy knew: he remembered those frantic years when Octavia was still too young to understand the importance of silence. This little girl should have been running between legs, asking endless unanswerable questions – instead she stared carefully at the grownup faces around her, as if still searching out her mother and father even now. Bellamy had to walk away from that face for a moment. It took him three deep breaths to find the calm comfort a child like that needed, but when he turned back he almost lost it again to see Clarke, hugging the tiny thing against her shoulder with a fierce determination.

He'd been so busy watching Clarke, he had missed how much it all mattered to Monty. He had missed Monty's worry for Alma, or the way he stayed right beside Clarke as they walked.

Now though, in the dark of the tunnels, Bellamy heard four year old Karl whimper in his sleep, watched Monty pull the boy closer against his side, and it was a hard punch to the gut to admit he knew this scene. He was watching a young Bellamy, a frightened little Octavia clinging to each other as though the outside world held all the monsters of Roman myth. Bellamy cleared his throat but could not dislodge the hard lump. These boys had found safety in each other, and neither was willing to let go of yet _another_ person.

Bellamy murmured good night quietly, but just as he was turning back toward the tunnel entrance Monty called his name.

"Listen. Without my parents…" he stopped and Bellamy waited. "I don't have anything keeping me at Camp, Bellamy. Not anymore. So… if you decide to go – I mean, _when_ you decide to go – come tell us. We'll be ready."

Bellamy was tempted to toe the party line. He was tempted to deflect, to assure Monty of the unity of the Arkers. But he remembered what Monty had been through, and how much he mattered to Clarke. Monty was one of theirs, and he deserved better. He had _earned _better.

"I will, Monty. Thanks." Without another word Bellamy headed back up the tunnel to his partner. He sank beside Clarke with an exhausted groan, curling closer and dragging the bright orange blanket around them both. Her damp hair still smelled of the snow drifting down beyond the cave mouth, and for a moment Bellamy considered going back outside, just for the pleasure of the experience again. The only person who had not smiled when the first flakes floated down onto them was Lincoln; he had tried to hurry everyone along, worried about getting caught in a blizzard. All the others, even Clarke, had smiled and stretched out their hands to catch at the snow. She had been so perfectly Clarke about the experience, too: in one breath able to describe the science of why ice crystals formed six spokes each time, and in another marveling at how beautiful and perfectly unique each was, a tiny ethereal sculpture.

"Are you okay?" Clarke asked, and he recognized that worried tone. _Fuck._ Would there ever be a point when she didn't have to worry so much? He was trying his hardest to get them there, but it seemed like this shit-hole planet always had some new torment for them.

"I'm fine. I just hope Monty knows what he's getting himself into, with those kids."

"Monty's not one to take responsibility lightly," Clarke whispered into his ear as she pressed one small cool hand to his cheek, drawing his attention to her face. He could feel some, though not all, of the tension easing from his neck as she pressed her forehead to his. "Trust him, Bellamy. I do. The kids do."

"Yeah." Bellamy tried to relax more fully into her, but he was fooling no one.

"Come on," Clarke finally huffed at him, standing and dragging the blanket around her. "Let's take a walk."

She folded the blanket and set it down just inside the mouth's edge, away from the ankle-deep drifts of snow, and twined her fingers into his. Together they stepped into a world transformed, made new and foreign all over again by this blanket of pure clean cold, and Bellamy smiled down at Clarke, smiled so hard his cheeks hurt because she glowed. Her eyes were wide with wonder at the pristine midnight landscape, dark pupils drinking in the vision of branches sagging low with the heavy weight of the snow, the crystal sparkle of starlight catching the peaks of snowdrifts. She glanced up and half-gasped, half-laughed, pointing up until Bellamy had no choice but to comply. It was hard. He wanted to watch her like this forever. But he did as she asked, turning his face to the sky.

"Shit," he breathed, stepping to Clarke's side so he could wrap one arm around her waist as they marveled at the barely-there crescent of moon, and the way it appeared to glow from within a rainbow outline made of a thousand small pinpricks of light. "What_ is_ that?"

"I don't know," Clarke admitted. "Wells would've known maybe, or Finn. I guess we'll have to ask someone when we get back to Camp."

Bellamy glanced down quickly at her words; but she hadn't flinched as the name slid off her tongue, there had been no uncertain catch in her breath before it tumbled past her lips, and for the first time in – he had not really paid attention to a calendar, but it had to have been weeks by now – she seemed really at peace.

"Sure, we'll check around Camp," he promised her quietly, with a gentle squeeze of her hip. "Although you never know, Monty or Jasper might have the answer."

"Or Lexa or Indra," Clarke smiled. "There are plenty of people to ask, really."

Beneath the simple statement was a mountain of relief. Clarke turned toward him, her eyes falling toward his lips, but just before he gave in to the warmth of her mouth he paused, cupping her chin in both hands.

"We're safe thanks to you, Clarke," he told her, earnestly, trying to make her understand how valuable she was to them all. "We have friends because of you."

"And we're alive because of you," she answered him. "_I'm_ alive because of you." Obviously Clarke was done with words; she grabbed at the thin cotton shirt exposed beneath his jacket (the zipper had broken ages ago), pulling herself up to his mouth hungrily. As they kissed he let the force of her pour over him, hard and determined and fierce, and Bellamy Blake tried to understand what the fuck he had ever done in his life, that she considered him worth her time, worth her love.

"Thank you," he mumbled at one point, the words slipping past her parted lips and teeth. He hadn't meant to say it out loud, but it was too late to take it back, and Clarke stilled suddenly under his hands.

"Why?" She asked, her voice small and uncertain. Bellamy cursed himself. She would hate his answer: _thank you for saving us all, thank you for your brilliance and strength and sense of duty, thank you for seeing me as more than just another useless face in the crowd, thank you for loving me, thank you for letting me love you the only way I'm any good at?_

"You know why," he laughed to throw her off, and she grinned and relaxed, pushing her nose against his lightly.

"Thank you too, then."

He vowed silently not to ask the question.


	22. Chapter 22

_**A/N:** Hello darlings. Well. I guess my big question is, are y'all still putting up with me? I know I haven't bee a good writer, but graduation looms so I am just really kind of... anyway. Enough about me. let me know if you're still reading, still interested, still willing to put up with my relative radio silence!_

_**A/N2: **Guest betas for this chapter were **Persepholily** and **Lucawindmover**, two very talented ladies in their own right. Please help me give them a BIG thank you!_

_**A/N3: **This chapter's a little odd. There's a whole other ending but I'm not including it here because it's more... it's like a director's cut version. So I think the chapter works really well this way, but if you want to read the last scene just let me know. It's quite heavily "M"-rated._

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><p><strong>Night 34<strong>

The sight of that hulking monstrous space station should have been a relief. It should have felt like coming home. It didn't, and one look at Clarke's face told Bellamy she was feeling it too. She at least had the decency to look conflicted by that; he couldn't even muster the energy to pretend any more.

As the gate opened to admit the weary group, Bellamy tensed. Something was wrong. There was too much strain in the way the guards were carrying their rifles. He slipped one arm around Clarke's waist, ready to pull her back out the way they had come.

Before he could, though, the shit-storm hit them full force. Lexa materialized out of the darkness like some angry raptor; she grabbed Clarke's elbow and dragged her along in a livid wake, heading for the snowy field just beyond their camp's borders. Bellamy turned to follow but suddenly Kane was at his side, a heavy hand on his shoulder, grim lines of worry creasing the skin at his mouth and eyes.

"That's not your conversation, Blake," Kane assured him. "Lexa needs to speak to her alone."

"Like hell," Bellamy growled, shaking free and chasing after Clarke. Kane didn't understand. Somehow, _still_, none of them understood. There weren't "she" or "he" things with Clarke. It was supposed to be "they". They had just forgotten for a while, that's all.

"- flies in the face of _everything_ you told me, Clarke!" Lexa sounded as pissed as she looked, and Clarke seemed distressed. Bellamy moved closer, taking his position at her shoulder almost without realizing he had done so. Lexa shot him an angry glare but Clarke just shook her head, and Lexa shrugged. Whatever had the Commander this upset, it was bad enough that she wouldn't waste time on the impertinence of Kane's Second for now. Her fight was with Clarke.

"You told me your people conduct trials! I helped you free Raven, counter to _every_ custom of my people, and this is how you repay that? If he were my captive, Wallace would be dead already! You were supposed to give him his trial, find him guilty, and _execute_ him!"

"Whoa! What the hell's going on?" Bellamy cut in. His brow furrowed at the women, but Clarke seemed too confused to answer, and Lexa still wouldn't bother with him. Bellamy simmered. "Clarke, can you make her talk sense?"

"You do not speak unless spoken to, Second!" Lexa snapped at him, briefly forgetting their bonding experiences in the battle at the Mountain. Bellamy felt his hand ball angrily against his thigh – but Clarke's own hand slid around that fist, and her small deft fingers uncurled his longer, rougher ones. As she pressed her palm against his, Clarke also squeezed ever-so-slightly. It was amazing how she could calm him with such a small gesture –

"Bellamy is _nobody's_ Second, Lexa."

– and how she could overwhelm him with such a simple sentence.

For a moment Lexa froze. She watched them both through narrowed eyes, and Bellamy wondered if this new dynamic offended her. But she recovered quickly, pretending almost not to see it but expanding the conversation to include them both. She explained that Jasper and Maya were making too many concessions in the negotiations with Mt Weather, granting most of Dante Wallace's requests based on little more than a promise that his people would "do the right thing."

"This is not what I agreed to, and this betrayal will not stand, Clarke," Lexa finished. Her eyes announced the authenticity of the threat; Clarke nodded. Bellamy cursed Jasper under his breath.

"We'll sort this out, Lexa. Just give us a little time, okay? We'll find a better answer." This time Lexa seemed willing to hear Bellamy's words.

"Fine. You have until sunrise. Bring me an acceptable solution by then, or our Alliance is null. We will consider anything otherwise to be an act of war by _both_ the Sky People - and their new allies, the Mountain Men."

* * *

><p>With Lexa and the rest of her entourage gone for the night (funny how that never seemed to include the guards just outside the gate though), Clarke and Bellamy sat down at the old Council table across from Abby and Kane. There were others there: Jasper and Maya pacing in a corner as if they knew they were in trouble; Lincoln and Octavia, strong and still as the walls of the space station itself; and Dante Wallace, handcuffed to a chair off to the side, his face oddly serene given the circumstances. Bellamy placed himself so he could keep Wallace in his sights no matter who was speaking, and raised one eyebrow at Abby.<p>

"What the fuck happened here while we were gone?"

"Watch your tone," Kane warned. "You get a pass to this table for now, but it _can_ be revoked." Bellamy shifted suddenly, angrily; but Clarke did that thing again – that little grab of his hand, steadying him, reminding him of who they were, and what they had done, and how this was not the place. She had perfect timing, given that Bellamy was about ready to suggest they revoke Kane's right to be on the damn _planet_.

"Let's focus on one crisis at a time, please," Clarke said to the room in general, but Bellamy knew it was meant for him. He nodded and crossed his arms as he leaned back in the chair, waiting for someone to come up with something… anything… that Lexa would consider sufficient to bring them all peace. At first the conversation was slow, stilted in part by the chips everyone now seemed to carry on their shoulders in equal measure. As they warmed to the topic, though, the conversation shifted, became slightly more collaborative, people building on the ideas of others. When Bellamy turned to Abby and asked how many people from the Ark were currently living at Camp Jaha, Clarke looked at him and smiled. He loved that smile. It was almost evil, it was slightly more than half sexy, and it was _all_ brilliant.

"But in exchange… Disarmament?" she asked, although the way her eyes danced told him she already knew the answer. God, he loved when she talked war tactics like that.

"Of course. _Complete_ disarmament. Including the damn mountain, Clarke."

"I know. We'll see if –"

"Oh, Lexa will take it. She'll pretend to be offended by the offer at first, but she'd be a fool not to take it."

"…Clarke? Honey, what are you two talking about?"

"Mom, there are a lot of people in Mount Weather. Somewhere around three hundred of them don't deserve to die. So let's just give them _exactly_ what they want."

"There are enough of us here that nobody would die, so... Let's give them our bone marrow," Bellamy finished for her. "In exchange for every gun, every weapon they have. And that includes Mount Weather itself. They'll have to vacate, and they can learn to survive out here like we did – or die. Either way, it'll be in their own hands."

* * *

><p>The midnight walk to Lexa's new camp, halfway between the fallen Ark and tondc, was quieter than Bellamy liked. He knew Lexa was impatient for the words that would avert a new war – but Clarke was preoccupied by something, and that wouldn't do.<p>

"Okay, stop," Bellamy finally said, his arm outstretched to block her path. "What's wrong? Because it's more than just these negotiations." As if that _wasn't_ enough. Clarke sighed and bit her lip.

"It's… You're right. We can't stay at Camp Jaha. I knew that, but I hadn't really _understood_ until tonight. I can't keep going like this Bellamy, just crisis after crisis and we're stuck wading through it, and all the _death_… I just…"

She was spiraling. He knew it and he needed to stop it, because she was dragging his heart along with hers, and that was yet another new discovery – how much their individual pain had become a shared thing.

"And we will. We'll leave as soon as this is done, I promise. We do this one last thing for them, Clarke, we save our people and the ones in Mount Weather, and then they're _all_ on their own."

"But… can you really do that? Can you turn your back like that?" His brow furrowed at her damn insightful nature. "Bellamy, I've never seen you give up on people. Even Murphy, really."

Bellamy looked around them at the darkness. They were passing along the western edge of a large field, sticking close to the tree line where there was less snow. Eventually he spotted it: a darker black that seemed to suck at the air, a tunnel entrance ten meters deeper in the forest. He led Clarke inside and took a seat on the dry ground. Clarke straddled him without speaking, pressing her soft warm chest against his to conserve heat. He held her like that for several minutes as he worked through racing thoughts. Eventually his mouth sought out hers, pressing a gentle kiss at the corner and another against her lower lip. That second one lingered, tempting, but he needed to stay focused on Clarke's question. He pulled back slightly and frowned.

"You're right. I'm not good at walking away. But neither are you. You could have told Lexa and your mom to work all this out on their own tonight. So why didn't you?"

She didn't answer. She didn't have to.

"When the time comes, we'll know. And we'll be ready, Clarke, I promise." She tightened her arms around him and nodded into his shoulder, then turned her face for another kiss.

Outside, lives hung in the balance. Bellamy knew this, and he knew Clarke was equally aware. But when she shifted her weight, pressing her hips into his and cupping his face with her hands, Bellamy realized Clarke was asking him to let go of that responsibility, to choose – just for a moment – the selfish path. His mouth slid down the white curve of her throat as he wondered how long they had until sunrise.

"We have at least a couple hours," Clarke whispered, as if reading his thoughts. He shivered – but that could have just been from the chill of her fingers, fumbling eagerly for the hem of his shirt. "Can we just… be enough for each other for a while?"


End file.
